Desperate Measures
by SeverinadeStrango
Summary: Due to the actions of the now-deceased privateer Sydney Underhill, the Resistance and the clockwork Armada have been thrown into upheaval. With the entirety of the Spiral now looming on the brink of war amidst several surreal events, both sides quickly conclude that desperate times call for desperate measures.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1: Abandoned**

After the nine clockworks that had been assigned to return the Armada Captain Servus Albus to the ship, Decimus' patrol had carried on, continuing forwards through the snow and against the blasting winds.

Decimus was numb – he could barely _comprehend_ what he had just overheard from the short worded conversation between the Captain and the officer of his own patrol –

Prima had been _terminated._

The one clockwork that had saved him, the one clockwork that possessed the miraculous ability to _understand_ the unpredictable had been _lost_ forever.

It was strange – although most soldiers would instantly attempt to calculate the effect that this would have their forces as a whole, as she _was_ their oldest and most knowledgeable combat officer, the _Pallas Athena_ of the Armada, to Decimus, it did not feel as _detached_ as that.

They had lost a _goddess,_ yes, but he had lost a _mother –_ and to hear such human words resulting from his own processor and the stability that did remain in his calculations was rather surreal indeed.

After all, she had _saved_ his function – if it had not been for _her,_ he likely would not be standing here now, even as accursed as his fate had truly was, to forever be _haunted_ by the madwoman of Skull Island.

Even _thinking_ of her at a comparable _distance_ than usual sent a shiver down the marksman's spine, and he could only hope that it was not noticeable to the clockworks surrounding him, or that the other soldiers were preoccupied with bracing themselves against the vicious winds, just as they were built to do, just as they were _made_ to do –

Just as he was and just as he _would have,_ had he not been haunted and _wanted_ by _her._

Decimus now became aware of the presence of the oddly – shaped marking on his throat, her marking, her brand – how it seemed to have a rather detached presence from the rest of his frame, how it seemed to have a _life_ of its own, if he concentrated hard enough upon it, much like a parasite that would slowly drain the blood and life out of a biological being –

 _Enough._

His own will was rather _weak_ at most times, yes, but miraculously, it was just enough to banish these paranoia – riddled thoughts from his processor –

 _For now._

And so he continued, _they_ continued onwards, marching through the snow, the snow and the ravaging blizzards of the Polarian wastelands.

It had taken such _concentration_ for Decimus to successfully bar these thoughts from his processor that the time had seemed to pass _much_ quicker than usual, however _impossible_ this phenomenon truly was – and the patrol had now arrived at the mouth of what seemed to be a _cave,_ directly _carved_ into the face of an immensely sized risen block of ice – a glacier surrounded by snow, it did appear.

"Be on alert."

It was rather curious, how the officer's voice seemed to carry above the screaming and howling of the sharp winds - and Decimus gripped his rifle harder, just as the musketeers surrounding him on either side did as well.

After all, even _if_ this did appear to be the cave that the Captain Servus Albus had described, there was no way to be certain of the _absence_ of any danger.

The patrol officer had led them in silently, quietly, without making any sudden movements or snapping out any loud orders – as all necessary commands were delivered in a crude, but easy to understand sign language of sort.

Having been located more towards the center of the patrol, it was not as easy for Decimus to get a full _view_ of the interior of this cave – but he certainly could catch a few glimpses over the heads and shoulders of the clockworks surrounding him.

The cave did not have a particularly _high_ ceiling – in fact, it was likely that if Decimus were to extend his arm towards it, the tips of his fingers would be mere inches away from brushing it.

There were also what seemed to be the remnants of a compact wooden workstation, complete with what had once been a table, a large toolbox (of which most of the contents were scattered across the snow), and the like –

However, they were in _pieces,_ he noticed – there were parts of them missing. The leg of the table, the lid of the toolbox and a large portion of the side of it as well – not to mention the entirety of the overhang, and one of the posts that _would_ have supported said overhang, had it remained in existence.

And they had not just been _removed_ from their original structure, these pieces – rather, they had been removed from existence, as they were nowhere to be _found_ within the cave itself.

 _Then where - ?_

 _Of course._

Decimus now passed by a small heap of burnt, charred wood, black from fire – after all, he had concluded, there _must_ have been a way that the Commodore and the Captain had managed to remain _functioning_ for such a period of time in _this_ particular environment.

"Captain!"

 _What?!_

"I have located - !"

" _Retrieve her frame!"_

And it was no later than the moment that the words had left the Captain of the squadron that the soldiers within the cave had quickly clustered towards the location of the first musketeer who had spoken, a select few remaining behind at the mouth of the cave in order to stand guard.

Naturally, they had no other method but to collectively push aside the heap of snow with their hands, the snow melting on contact and seeping through their gloves – but it was no _matter_ now, not with the frame of what had once been such a _vital_ officer underneath this all.

It was then revealed that the Captain Servus Albus had dug a hole of sorts within the snow here, underneath the pile, and it was only a short while before they had managed to unbury the very top of her shoulder – she was only wearing a white shirt, it seemed, which was most unusual, given –

Then again, Decimus remembered, when they had _found_ the Captain of the White Cadre, he was _wearing_ her coat – obviously having taken it to ensure his own survival. After all, she did not exactly have a _need_ for it any longer.

Had the soldiers of the patrol squadron been human, had they been _impulsive beings,_ they would have immediately attempted to grab her by her revealed shoulder and attempt to tug her the rest of the way out – but such would only damage her frame – as beings of _much_ higher intelligence, they had _knowledge_ of this.

And thus, the frame of the once – legendary Commodore Prima had to be uncovered little by little, inch by inch, the rest of her arm, then her torso, then her head and frozen – solid hair and her legs slowly coming into view.

It seemed that the officer of the patrol had already assigned a group of clockworks to lift and carry her frame – for as soon as the Commodore had been uncovered enough so that her frame was able to be lifted from the ground without any major level of resistance, one of the marines dropped to his knees beside her and lifted her easily, a pair of marines and a pair of musketeers then moving to flank him as he rose.

"Return to the ship."

Following the Captain's orders, the soldiers of the patrol regrouped, Decimus in the midst of them, as was the soldier carrying the frame of the Commodore – for it was vital that she was protected, even though the animation and the process was no longer _within her._

 _A frame, a shell, all empty –_

As they marched out of the low – ceilinged cave and once again into the glacial wastelands of Polaris, Decimus was only _vaguely_ aware of his own movements, every numbing step, every _second_ of stinging flesh (as he was not built to be _resistant_ to the cold, much like the other soldiers in the squadron) – as he was focused on something entirely _different._

On the very _edge_ of his vision, he could clearly see the Commodore Prima – or rather, the frame that had once _been_ the Commodore Prima.

The very _same_ Commodore Prima that had retrieved him from the clutches of the witchdoctor Dangler, the very _same_ Commodore Prima that had fought and argued and practically _battled_ to keep him in function against the Supreme Commander Kane himself.

She had seemed so _strong_ and _unbreakable_ before, he remembered, with her numerous decades of function – and now, here she was, immobile in the arms of another soldier –

Her strength was _gone,_ yes it was – and she was merely left as her _physical_ being, another _weak, fragile – framed_ musketeer just as Decimus himself was.

It was a rather _shocking_ sight – and perhaps more so for Decimus than for any of the other surrounding soldiers, as he had _seen_ the true extent of her influence, knowledge, and _power_ before –

And he had been _awed_ by it, only to see her become _humbled_ by her own termination.

 _BANG!_

The sound of a single shot from a fair distance away – and as if this was a trigger in itself, _numerous_ Polarian warriors suddenly then _rose out of the snow_ before them, seemingly appearing out of _nowhere –_

 _How were they not found?!  
_

" _Ambush!"_

Decimus found himself firing his rifle before he was even fully _aware_ of it – it was only when the dead corpse of one of the warriors had collapsed at his feet did he _truly_ realize what was going on, did he _truly_ now take in how they were now being _attacked_ from all sides, for this had been _planned,_ and their enemies had been _positioned_ far before they had arrived.

It was _clear_ who held the upper hand – and without being given any sort of verbal order, a group of eight soldiers formed a protective wall around the marine carrying the Commodore's frame – of course, they did not _dare_ to fire upon the warriors, as such would draw attention to them, and such was _unwanted_ when they were to return her frame to the ship.

Even though these nine particular soldiers were but a small fraction of the patrol, it did induce a hint of the rather _eerie_ feeling of abandonment – at least for _Decimus,_ who had been conquered and ruled by fear for as long as he could possibly remember.

He was then forced to yank his focus back to his present location and situation in order to dodge out of the way of the wickedly curved blade of another warrior –

Before firing a _lethal_ charge directly into his chest in the very nick of time, sliding out of the way in order to avoid being crushed by the warrior's heavy corpse, many times the weight of his own frame.

And in the back of his mind, as he fired at other warriors from a distance to lessen the changes of them engaging him in close combat (as he was not built for such, as the marines were), the marksman could not _help_ but compare this to the Great Demise.

It had occurred decades ago, when the Polarian War had still raged on, yes – but all clockwork soldiers knew of it.

How could they _not,_ when it had been the single battle that had resulted in the termination of two of the Armada Commodores and the capture and torture of the third?

Such a loss had never been taken by the clockwork forces, not _all at once –_ it was as if two of the elites had been slaughtered upon the same day, disrupting function, order, and stability, all of which were vital to such beings as the clockworks who relied on certainty as their basis.

Therefore, to draw any sort of parallel to that particular battle had a certain air of _dread_ about it, to say the _very_ least.

And it was _then_ that he had seen her.

It had been what he had feared ever since he had first ran from the shattered frame of what had once been his _imprisonment_ back in the fortress of Cadiz – that _she_ would look for him, that _she_ would seek him out once again –

His worst fears _confirmed,_ his worst fears _come alive –_

It was _just_ as before, and _just_ as horribly, infinitely terrifying – she _reached_ for him once again with those _claw –nailed_ hands, and her shrill, banshee – like laughter and soft words of supposed _affection_ ricocheting through the air ten times, a _hundred_ times, overlapping upon each other and wrapping around him, smothering him, suffocating him.

And he could not _move,_ he found, for he had completely _frozen_ in fear, and Decimus could not truly tell if this _torment_ was truly as endless as it seemed to be or if time had simply been _stretched_ out so that it seemed that way – and frankly, he did not know which one was worse.

Her laugh, her cutting, piercing laugh, her _hands,_ her clawed hands with the _talon_ nails, the claws of a rabid crow reaching for its prey –

He _could not move –_

He _could not move away –_

And her eyes, her _crazed_ grey eyes, unfocused as if they were patches of mist rather than circles of colors looking _into_ him, _through_ him and beyond as his world seemed to _flip_ and spin beyond his control.

This was _more_ than enough to undo him, to _unhinge_ him, and it was _ever_ worsened when her already – grey skin began to stretch _horrifically_ over her face –

 _God no PLEASE no…!_

\- And it _flaked_ off, her flesh quite literally turning into _ash_ as more and _more_ of her skull was revealed.

 _You're mine –_

 _MINE!_

 _You're mine YOU'RE MINE and I'll never let you GO NEVER LET YOU GO - !_

Regardless of how long it had _seemed_ to the marksman, these numerous, horrific flashes had all passed before his very _eyes_ within no more than a few _seconds._

However, these _few seconds_ in which Decimus had remained _frozen stiff_ were all that was needed for the Polarian gunman stationed not too far away to fire a stunning charge into his chest, only for yet _another_ warrior to run up to him within the next instant and drive the tip of his blade _sharply_ into Decimus' torso.

It had all hit Decimus harder than a twenty – ton ship – he could barely register where he _was,_ and it was as if he was simply being drowned in _wave_ after _wave_ of shock and pain, and it was a _relief_ when he finally felt his knees give out underneath him, sending him toppling to the ground behind what seemed to be a truly _massive_ snowdrift.

The pile of snow was large – large enough so that it prevented any of the now – scattered soldiers of his patrol or any of the Polarian warriors from further seeing him, and after several attempts, Decimus also found that his voice was _quite_ weak – he could not manage much more than a soft rasp which was more than easily lost to the howling winds.

In the back of his mind, Decimus could register a strangely warm sensation against his body – centered near his torso, where the blade had been _thrust_ into him, leading him to conclude that this was most _certainly_ a fatal amount ofhis _blood_ leaking out from the wound.

And most _ironically,_ he now found himself willing his own blood to leave him _faster._

After all, it would be a _relief –_ with the Commodore _terminated_ and his disappearance likely known of within Cadiz, there truly _was_ no safe haven from _her –_ for even though Decimus was _fairly_ certain that this had been her _last look,_ there was no _escaping_ how his _impeccable_ memory would, no doubt, be able to _recall_ her image, her laugh, her _touch._

Yes, given all of _this,_ death would be a _wonderful_ relief – and it was all too _fortunate_ that it had happened in _this_ manner.

Decimus was not _capable_ of suicide; his processor did not have the complexity of an officer – his _core_ programming would, inevitably, prevent him from doing so.

How _fortunate_ it was that this situation _now_ had left him so _helpless_ against himself, _permitting_ him to finally _escape._

The frigid temperatures would slow the blood flow, Decimus knew, - and it would be _painful_ for these next few moments indeed.

But this would only be _temporary,_ yes, it would be _minute_ as compared to this _eternal torment –_ and it would end soon, it would _all end soon,_ such would be a _welcome relief._

And so he waited.

* * *

 **And thus begins "Desperate Measures!"**

 **I hope you enjoyed, and do be sure to leave a review.**

 **\- Severina**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2: Only a Story**

The Chamberlain manor was, as always, _dreadfully_ empty – especially at this hour.

It was an hour or two past noon – the sun was still shining in its _obnoxiously_ bright manner, and trainees and returning or visiting pirates were bustling to and fro outside the streets, making noise of such a volume that Hunter could hear it _clearly_ from where he was standing, as if he was amidst this buzz himself.

And it was painful.

It was painful, it was _unbearable_ to know that life had continued _on_ within the Island, that there were those outside who found _enjoyment_ in their lives, or in some small aspect of it –

How _dare_ they find happiness, Hunter had thought, when mine has vanished from the face of the Spiral.

How dare they _laugh_ when I will never hear her do so again –

For even her demented _shriek_ would be better than this _suffocating_ silence.

Reaching out towards the table positioned directly to his right, Hunter ran his fingertips over the onyx urn atop it, _gently,_ as if he was afraid to destroy _her_ more than he already had, if that was even _possible._

She had literally been reduced to ashes, and glancing into this urn would most _certainly_ confirm that.

Hunter still could not _quite_ figure out, he realized rather _absentmindedly,_ how he had brought himself to collect her remains, the long strands of her hair, the ashes that had once been her flesh and bones.

 _I can see him –_

 _Beautiful…!_

Fighting back the _wave_ of guilt that threatened to wash over him and _drag_ him back out to sea, Hunter leaned his forehead against the glass of the large window within the main room, attempting to control his own breathing for a few brief seconds before realizing that this attempt was _futile._

It had only been days –

And yet, it had already felt like a lifetime – and Hunter knew _full_ well that he would now have to endure a _true_ lifetime, stretched out to its full duration by his own _misery,_ by his _mistakes,_ without _her._

A large part of him was indeed tempted to follow her, to join his beloved in death and see her in her health and beauty and happiness once more, to see and hold and love the free spirit that she had been when he had first fallen for her – and he had come quite close to _carrying out_ this action several times _already,_ regardless of the fact that it had only been a few _days_ since he had brought himself to return back to the island, back to the manor –

Back to the manor which held _her scent_ in the bed sheets, the air, the furniture, the piano, her violin upon the shelf where she had set it the last time.

Her essence still lingered within this manor, and this only made it all the more _torturous,_ knowing that the source behind it was _gone_ from this life, knowing that eventually, these small traces of her would fade away, just as _she_ had, and he would be left with _nothing._

 _All because of me –_

 _Of ME, I had brought him –_

 _I had TOLD her - !_

He wondered if she was _happy,_ or, as some would say, _in a better place –_ Hunter wondered if she had been _relieved_ of her insanity, the obsession that had clouded her vision for _years_ , if it had all been removed in the eternal life beyond.

Or would she _never_ be liberated, yes, that was a possibility as well – would she be doomed to drown in her own fixations, her own _unobtainable_ fixations _forevermore?_

It was painful, it was pure, white – hot _agony_ for him to think of this – for he knew full well that if she was to be condemned to suffering, it would be _his_ fault alone.

 _Forgive me –_

 _I beg of you, forgive me…!_

It was not quite clear if these words had merely echoed unbearably within his skull or if he had _actually_ screamed them – but it did not make a _difference,_ it did not _matter,_ he was _entirely_ alone within this house with no one to hear him, no high – pitched, whimsical voice to ask him _what was the matter,_ and if _everything was all right,_ only partially concerned and partially, _constantly_ euphoric –

She had been in this frightening state, yes, but it was at least a _state –_ she was still _there,_ she was still _with_ him, unlike now, unlike now…

 _Because of you, all because of you._

And now, there was no stopping the tear that slowly slid down the brown – haired witchdoctor's face, as if his hazel eyes, sunken from sleep deprivation, were not _already_ swollen enough, as if he had not _already_ cried enough –

 _It is never enough –_

 _Nothing can bring her back to me - !  
_

Feeling his own heart _twist_ within his torso, Hunter could barely manage to prevent himself from _shrieking_ as he slid to the floor against the window, now clutching the onyx urn containing all that remained of his _beloved_ tightly to his chest, as if this would enable him to hold her fragile, skeletal frame to him once again, just as he had in _her last moments._

" _Forgive me, Dangler…!"_

 _I have failed you, I have condemned you, I have killed you._

And nothing could ever reverse it.

* * *

Inside one of the many small, narrow houses near the docks of Skull Island, Clever Andrew Sharp carefully surveyed his newest soon – to – be – completed contraption that was set out upon the wobbling wooden table before him.

 _Almost done –_

Just _one_ last lens – a circular, convex piece of glass that was _so_ small that it was practically _impossible_ to be seen by the human eye, and the musketeer had found that the task of simply _setting_ this required what must have been the smallest pair of tweezers in the entire _spiral_ , his most _massive_ magnifying glass, and a nearly _inhuman_ amount of –

 _Click._

 _-concentration._

Throwing the tweezers down to the side, Andrew leaned back in his chair, heaving a sigh of relief and yanking off the strip of fabric that he had tied around his forehead, which had been holding his _unruly_ brown bangs from flopping _obnoxiously_ over the side of his face.

It was only _then_ that Andrew had realized that his forehead was covered in a sheen of sweat – and he swiped at it infuriatingly, as this would only cause his impossibly thick glasses to slide even _further_ down his nose.

Yes, he most definitely _needed_ his vision to work, he decided – as being practically _blind_ would not allow him to make much progress at _all._

The musketeer shivered once, abruptly, as if this would somehow dispel the strange accumulation of tension that had seemed to build up within him, just as it _always_ did when he was performing tasks that were _important_ and _intricate,_ but only required the _smallest_ of movements – lest the project become _ruined._

Upon the table before him, the latest of these projects now sat almost _proudly –_ it was a _small_ thing, really, consisting of a simple stand, a glass slide, and an extensive series of lenses placed over one another, each one increasing the magnification tenfold once and again.

 _A microscope._

Such contraptions were usually only available in Marleybone, and they were most usually much more finely made than _this –_ but Andrew's own handiwork would most definitely serve its _function,_ no doubt, just as it _always_ did.

Determined to confirm that his latest project was indeed a _success,_ the musketeer reached up, tugging a single strand of brown hair from his head and placing it upon the slide, focusing and adjusting the many lenses until he was able to see _every_ microscopic crevice and crease –

 _Perfect._

A part of him almost wished to _jump_ for joy, as after all, he had spent _months_ acquiring those diamond – cut lenses via various means – but this would then place the precious hand – made microscope at risk of _breaking,_ and so he _refrained_ from doing so.

It was then that the door was practically _knocked_ off of its hinges with a loud _bang,_ and the rather startled musketeer leapt to his feet, reaching for one of his _many_ pistols that lay on the table beside him –

"Hey, _whoa,_ it's just me!"

Andrew now finally looked up to see Zachary Zest – one of the most gifted witchdoctors of Skull Island and his best friend of eleven years – standing in the doorway, his hands raised slightly above his hands in the universal gesture of surrender.

" _Dammit,_ Zachary, for the _millionth_ time, you _scared_ me!"

"So?" The shorter witchdoctor smirked obnoxiously, a momentary flash of those pure white teeth, before reaching up and ruffling his own brown hair in order to place it in an even greater state of disarray, as if it _didn't_ seem to _defy gravity_ enough already. "I don't see what's so – "

"I could have been _working –_ you would have _ruined_ all – all _this…!_ "

"Whoa, you _finished it?!_ "

Before he could stop him, Zachary had leapt forward, shoved Andrew aside, and planted himself in the wooden chair that the musketeer had been sitting in just seconds earlier, regarding the tiny creation with _awe._

"Does it _work?_ "

"Yeah, I tested it myse – "

" _Awesome,_ let me try!"

His next actions – removing the slide, sweeping the single strand of hair off of it before using the tweezers to split the skin of his own finger and wiping the resulting blood on the glass instead – had been in such a flurry that Andrew had, once again, found his attempts to _slow him down_ to be futile.

Indeed, it was impossible to deny – even though Zachary was rather _scrawny_ compared to most of the nineteen – year – old males of Skull Island, with the outline of his ribs _just_ visible, he did seem to have enough energy for _seven_ people, and to say he was _hyperactive_ was an understatement by far.

The interior of the small house was now _completely_ silent, save for the near – silent clicking as Zachary adjusted the lenses of the microscope and the witchdoctor's own sounds of amusement and awe.

"I can literally see the _cells…_ is _this_ what you do when I'm away at sessions?" Zachary now sat straight up, once again scratching at his hair – Andrew couldn't _blame_ him, seeing as his hair did look as if it held quite a large amount of static electricity, which was likely _uncomfortable_ to carry around all day.

"Yeah – it's pretty nice sometimes, you know, doing my own thing."

Opting not to take the musketeer master classes after he had officially completed his training had not been a _regret_ of Andrew's – as he had near _perfect_ accuracy to begin with, and, he had reasoned, completing his numerous unfinished projects would be a much more _efficient_ use of his time.

However, Zachary had been quite the opposite – he had continued on in his own training as much as he could, and, as a result, was one, if not _the_ most advanced of Vadima's disciples.

Of course, the chances of _that_ were slim indeed – as Andrew had not heard of a _single_ individual who had ever been able to match the power of _Dangler,_ whom Vadima had mentored herself – but then again, she had not been seen in _years._

"So, what'd you do during today's session?"

It was a default question of sorts that Andrew had learned to ask after Zachary returned from them – after all, the witchdoctor did enjoy relaying the events, and Andrew found that he enjoyed hearing of them.

However, this time, Zachary's face had fallen almost _abysmally._

"Nothing."

This was certainly _unusual,_ and naturally, the musketeer could not _help_ but wonder –

"Did something go… _wrong?"_

Zachary's golden eyes had then snapped open once again – as they had been lowered until now – and he quickly stole a glance over his shoulder, as if paranoid that they were being eavesdropped upon, before speaking again.

"Madame Vadima, she…she wasn't able to teach… _at all._ "

"What – "

" _Dangler's dead."_

It was as if Andrew had been doused with a bucket of cold water – and he could only _vaguely_ feel his own jaw drop in shock.

She had been one of the _figureheads_ of the Resistance – the impossibly _beautiful,_ impossibly _powerful_ witchdoctor prodigy, as well as the lover of Hunter Chamberlain, whose family name was one of the main sponsors of the Skull Island Resistance branch.

 _Gone._

Even so, it did not make any _sense –_

" _How?!_ "

She was young – even though she was several years older than Andrew himself was, there was no _way_ that she was older than _thirty,_ at the very most – death would not have been _expected._

"I…I don't _know_ exactly, Chamberlain told her – apparently she went _crazy._ "

And it did make _sense_ now, her disappearance – how his most recent memory of her had been from around a decade ago.

"And this… _killed_ her…?"

Zachary shook his head, an _unusual_ air of seriousness about him.

"Not exactly. She got stabbed in combat…with _Sydney Underhill._ "

It was indeed _difficult_ for Andrew to _comprehend_ this – and he quickly pulled out another chair before sinking into it, his legs having turned ashamedly weak.

 _This doesn't make sense - !_

"But she's a _pirate,_ isn't she – _Underhill?"_

"Yeah, or so they _thought._ Apparently she went crazy too."

And the musketeer could now note that his friend's tanned face had now turned _ashen –_

"She turned a bunch of clockworks to her command _somehow…_ and then…and then, in the Ancient Ruins…in the tunnels, she _killed her own crew..."_

Silence now reigned once more, for neither of them had found the _capacity_ within themselves to speak -

Likewise, as Dangler had been a figurehead of sorts for the Skull Island trainees, Sydney Underhill had been known for being the Captain of a three – person, yet _unstoppable_ crew, composed of Jewel Zabra, the deadly swashbuckler who was faster than one could follow, and Samantha Hawkins, who had pulled entire _galleons_ into the docks of Skull Island using nothing but the strength within her own body ever since she was fourteen.

The crew of the Grand Fife had been as tightly knit as _sisters –_ and _anyone_ who had doubted it had quickly been proven wrong.

And to think that the very Captain of this near – _perfect_ team had turned on them, had _harmed_ them, had _ended their very lives…_

It was _frightening_ to think of, and he could _see_ the slight shiver that had travelled through Zachary's form, almost identical to the one that was wracking his own as of now.

Yes, the musketeer found himself thinking, it would have made the _perfect_ horror story – one to tell to the new trainees during their first night after their sessions, to unnerve them, to make them shake in their skins – one that would haunt the corners of each and every Captain's mind, driving them to be _ever_ more loyal to their crew, as they _should_ be.

He did _wish_ it was merely a _story,_ this gruesome series of events – but given the source that it had come from, the reality of it was undeniable.

And it was indeed _horrifying._

* * *

 **I hope you enjoyed, and do be sure to leave a review!**

 **\- Severina**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3: Of Slightest Chance**

It had been an hour or two since the battle had occurred – the burning smell of fired charges still lingered in the air, as did the stench of blood.

A battle between the straggling warriors of the Polarian resistance, yes, against what _must_ have been an Armada patrol – as this was _characteristic_ of them, to not leave the frames of their terminated soldiers behind.

After all, much could be learned from a corpse alone – and given how _furiously_ they guarded their own advancements and technological secrets and information; it was only _natural_ that the Armada had _realized_ this long ago.

However, unlike the clockworks of the Armada, the Polarian resistance warriors had obviously not done the same – and as a result, the numerous cadavers – along with their _weapons_ – remained scattered about the expanse of snow that had seemingly been the "battlefield," so to speak.

 _They'll come to be of use._

Stooping low, Vladimir – a former human citizen of Polaris – gripped onto the handle of one of the _massive_ battleaxes that was laying just a few feet away from the corpse of its presumed owner before lifting it out of the snow, over his shoulder, and placing it into what could only be described as a very _large_ quiver that he had strapped to his back for these exact purposes.

 _Weapon scavenging –_ it was not the most _honorable_ of "professions," no, but it certainly was _worth it,_ as some would argue.

After the Great Polarian War, the world had quickly been plunged into chaos under the new rule of the Armada – the citizens had not responded _well_ to being placed under the control of such an authoritarian regime, and naturally, they had revolted, bear, penguin, and human alike.

Vladimir himself had been lucky enough to quickly locate a group of other humans who shared his situation and motives, and they had been crewmembers, as close as brothers, for _nine_ years now.

One by one, he moved about this small portion of body – littered, bloodstained snow, pulling the large blades, the heavy guns out of their snowy encasing, and in some cases, out of the _cold, dead hands_ of the corpses of their previous owners.

Yes, Polarian weapons were indeed cumbersome and large and heavy – as one native to this world, he would _know_ – but they were _effective_ nevertheless, when wielded by one with great strength as the warriors were so famed for having.

However, this strength had not seemed to protect them from being mercilessly _mowed down_.

It was indeed strange to think of – and even _more_ strange when Vladimir now remembered that it was likely done by the _clockwork Armada,_ the Armada of marionette soldiers with frames of metal and gears and piano wire, their own physical strength likely a mere fraction compared to those of the warriors.

Therefore, it could only be concluded that they possessed superior _weapons –_ something that both Vladimir and the rest of his scavenging crew had been _desperate_ to attain all throughout their years, but could _not,_ as the Armada had always been rather _selective_ when it came to remaining in possession of their own weapons – even those of terminated clockworks.

At this point, to find such lying in this battlefield would be an absolute _miracle,_ he thought – it was rather ironic, how his crew – along with a great majority of the Spiral – were kept dangling from a thread by this _imbalance_ of information.

Even finding a _single_ rifle would bring knowledge beyond _belief –_

And at that _exact_ moment, it was almost as if some unknown deity in a higher realm of sorts had heard his very thoughts – for it was only now that he finally saw the thin outline of a gun, a _marksman's rifle_ that was _far_ too narrow and lightweight to belong to the native warriors of this world.

On pure instinct, _fear_ had struck through the man, regardless of the fact that this weapon most certainly belonged to no more than a _single_ soldier and he could _easily_ overpower an unarmed clockwork musketeer, given how slight they were in build compared to his own muscular form, sculpted by years of sailing and scavenging, not only for weapons, but for his own _life._

If the weapon had been left, then the soldier was likely near it – as the Armada did not _leave_ terminated soldiers, they did not _leave_ their soldiers who were programmed to kill, who were _built_ to kill imperfect beings such as Vladimir himself.

Drawing one of the several battleaxes that he had slung across his back, the Polarian scavenger slowly inched forwards, desperately attempting to remain _silent_ even though the howling winds would surely block out _any_ shuffling noises that his feet would make –

And yet, much to his surprise, no clockworks had jumped out from behind the snowdrifts, prepared to attack and kill.

There had not been any movement made to retrieve the rifle that was now lying less than two feet away from his own leg.

Such was _strange_ indeed – as without his rifle, an Armada marksman was nothing more than a fragile, vulnerable frame, especially considering that this one was _solitary._

Yes, the Polarian was _quite_ certain that there was _another_ out here, whether he was terminated or –

It was then that the edge of Vladimir's heavy boot had nudged against something behind the snowdrift that he was attempting to sneak around – and he quickly glanced down, only to start and stumble backwards frantically, falling over within _seconds_ in the knee – deep snow.

 _It can't be – !_

And sure enough, the Polarian realized as he got back to his feet, it _was –_

The _frame_ of an Armada marksman.

Although the clockwork made no movement that was _visible_ from where the Polarian was standing, Vladimir still remained ever wary, keeping the blade pointed steadily in front of him as he nudged the slender, still frame with the toe of his boot.

This did not draw any _reaction –_

 _He is terminated…?  
_

But it did succeed in shifting the clockwork's frame a few inches to the left, revealing the _massive_ pool of dark blood directly underneath him – and the Polarian man blanched, feeling some of the strength drain from his arms.

It was quite ironic – even though he and his comrades had been wounded (occasionally severely) many times throughout their years together, he had never _quite_ gotten over the _dread_ that seemed to burst through him at the sight of large quantities of blood.

Forcing himself to divert his eyes, Vladimir knelt down and placed a hand on the clockwork's shoulder (which he did find to be _alarmingly_ thin, upon closing his grip) before pushing him slightly more to the side so that the barrel of the rifle would no longer be caught underneath his shoulder blade, allowing the Polarian to retrieve the weapon and store it in his own quiver of sorts, alongside the numerous battleaxes.

He took care not to _damage_ it, of course – as this would be, if his memory had not failed him within the last few years, the _first_ Armada weapon within the already – massive arsenal of his scavenging crew, which had become quite like _family_ to him.

Inwardly, Vladimir noted the growing ache in his own back – although he was slightly _ashamed_ of himself upon first instinct for only having been able to retrieve _four_ weapons, five if he counted the battleaxe that was now gripped in his hands, _even though_ the weight of them was _immense_ as compared to a great majority of the other weapons within the observable Spiral.

Yes, it would soon be time to _return_ to the ship – which did leave a question.

 _Should I take his frame as well…?_

After all, this _would_ be an almost _golden_ opportunity to learn of the inner workings of the Armada clockworks – as well as what made them so impossibly _intelligent._ Of course, Vladimir himself was no doctor, but it was more than likely that at least _some_ of his crewmates would gain some sort of knowledge.

Once again, the Polarian knelt down, carefully sliding an arm underneath the clockwork's shoulders and pulling his frame closer towards his own and out of where he lay half – buried in the snowdrift, taking care to avoid the _massive_ stab wound in his torso (at which the point of one of the wicked battleaxe blades had _ripped_ through the metal of his chestplate) so that the snow beneath them both would not be stained red even _more_ thoroughly than it already was.

And he was _just_ about to lift his frame when the marksman's thin arms had _twitched._

This did cause Vladimir to jump yet _again,_ and he was only _barely_ able to refrain from brutally _shoving_ the marksman's frame away from him as if he were some sort of abnormally _horrifying_ creature.

Now ceasing all movement of his own, he looked closer once more – as a part of him was quite certain that he had _imagined_ this.

Yes, _yes,_ just a figment of his _paranoid_ imagination, perhaps it was the _cold,_ perhaps some sort of _sickness_ had overtaken him –

That was when it had occurred again – and it was _certain_ this time, for rather than simply twitching, the marksman had raised his thin – fingered, blood – drenched hand _ever_ so slightly into the air, as if in a gesture of surrender – or perhaps he was attempting to _cower away,_ Vladimir figured – it truly could have been either of the two.

But as of now, as of _now,_ such was _beside_ the matter –

 _He lives...?!_

It was _quite_ certain – for he now thrashed weakly against the Polarian's form, his lightweight frame almost _pathetically_ small compared to Vladimir himself – and now, the scavenger was faced with an entirely _different_ dilemma.

He had already made up his _mind_ regarding the previous issue – yes, he _would_ return to the ship with this clockwork marksman, that had been decided – but now, it was a question as to whether this soldier would be _dead_ or _alive._

 _Dead,_ the paranoid part of him had screamed – _kill him now, take him back, he was as good as dead anyways._

And it was almost as if the marksman had _heard_ these thoughts, for he had physically _flinched_ – but much to Vladimir's surprise, he did not further raise his arm to shield himself, and he did _not_ struggle – rather, his thin frame went _completely_ limp within the Polarian's half – grip in absolute _surrender._

" _I…I beg of you…"_

The winds had not _ceased_ in their howling, and strangely yet, Vladimir had still been _able_ to hear the marksman's _desperate, pleading_ whisper –

Despite of how his survival instincts _screamed_ at him to do anything _but_ this, the scavenger lowered his face closer to the clockwork's in order to hear his words more clearly, as it was plain that speaking did _strain_ him –

" _Kill me."_

 _What?!_

Out of _all_ of the words that could have come from this _marionette soldier,_ that had been what Vladimir was _least_ expecting.

" _Take…me away…she sees me…!"_

Had the clockwork before him been _human,_ Vladimir would have been _certain_ that he was dealing with one of the _psychotic_ nature, or at least one that was _hallucinating,_ as such victims often said such things – but this soldier was _none of the above._

Clockworks, _emotionless, soulless_ creatures – these were indeed the _last_ words that _anyone_ would have expected one of them to utter.

And who was _she?_

Vladimir had almost worked up the courage to actually _speak_ to the soldier, to this being who was built and meant to _kill_ him – but it was then that the marksman had seemingly lapsed into an unresponsive state, the only signs of function remaining within him being the slight twitches of his fingers.

It was not _unconsciousness,_ no, these beings were not _human –_ rather, it was most likely a severe state of _disorientation,_ much like what one would experience after being spun around in place for an almost _unhealthy_ amount of time.

Nevertheless, this clockwork's actions and words had been _strange_ indeed, beyond any doubt –

 _Kill me –_

 _Take me away –_

 _She sees me…!_

It was almost strangely _pitiful,_ in a way - of course, there was still the question of _whom_ he was referring to – but such answers could always be found later.

And in that _moment_ , Vladimir had made his decision – he would return to the ship as planned –

With the marksman kept _alive._

It was not because he _could not bring himself_ to kill the soldier if he had tried, no, he _would_ not let himself think that – rather, it was for the greater good, it was a chance to gain information regarding the worst enemy of Polaris –

 _The most malevolent force in the Spiral._

Yes, this did seem to be a satisfactory conclusion indeed – and with that, the Polarian scavenger slid his other arm underneath the marksman's knees and easily lifted his frame from the snow as he stood, squinting his grey – blue eyes instinctively in order to avoid being practically _blinded_ by the icy winds.

The long trudge back to the ship seemed almost autonomous, and Vladimir was _aware_ that his mind had slipped into a somewhat dormant state as he walked, barely able to feel the cutting wind or the stinging snow on the area of his face that had been left exposed and uncovered by the thick scarf wrapped around his nose and mouth.

It had all been _second nature_ to him, to mentally block out the pain of the cold, and the numbness as well, likely due to having been forced to find his own way within the harshest of these worlds' environments from a relatively early age.

All the meanwhile, he took notice to step _carefully,_ so that the frame of the marksman would not be jostled _too_ violently – this would undoubtedly be detrimental, especially given the _size_ of the stab wound on his abdomen.

 _The Polarian blades are mighty, to be able to rip through armor of steel._

He would certainly mention this to Aleks – their Captain – when the chance presented itself – as the sooner they could develop some sort of countermeasure against this, the better.

Even though he could not _feel_ it directly through the many layers that he was currently wearing, Vladimir _knew_ that the fabric of his outer greatcoat was at least _partially_ stained maroon with the marksman's blood –

The soldier had already lost so _much_ of it, now that he did think of it, now that he _vividly_ recalled how _dark_ the red snow beneath him had been – and the Polarian attempted to avoid jostling the slender frame as much as he could, as if this would somehow slow the blood flow.

Yes, he knew full well that this would not do _anything_ – the only way to prevent further bloodloss at this point was to tightly bind the wound, which did seem to be _immensely_ deep, according to his estimate.

It was quite astonishing that the marksman had somehow remained _aware_ of his own surroundings and was still able to lift his own arms, to a degree – most mortal beings at this point, having lost the amount of blood that he had, would have surely lapsed into a state of unconsciousness –

Then again, this soldier _was not_ human, Vladimir recalled – regardless of how humanoid they did appear.

And such was one of the most _terrifying_ aspects about the Armada clockworks – how they were _almost – humans_ rather than humans themselves, to the point that one would retain a sense of _hope_ that these marionette soldiers would take _sympathy,_ that they would take _pity –_

When in reality, they would do anything but such.

By now, the small dock at which the ship belonging to Vladimir's crew, the _Sapfir,_ had anchored had come into view, although a great majority of it was still hidden by the fog – the scavenger could only just see the very tops of the masts.

He was usually the first out of his crew to return to the ship, as although he was indeed the youngest out of them all, he was _efficient –_ and therefore could cover a larger area of land in a _much_ shorter time, yes, he had _worked_ to ensure that.

It appeared that this time would be much like the norm – for there was no rush or flurry of movement when Vladimir stepped upon the deck, as there usually would be had anyone _else_ been aboard.

Internally, the blonde – haired Polarian heaved a sigh of relief – for he would not be _discovered_ in attempting to hide this clockwork, no, but he certainly would have to work fast – as the others most usually returned to the ship merely minutes after him.

Descending the staircase that led to the lower decks, Vladimir cautiously moved through the single narrow hallway which held _many_ doors, turning the corner until he came to the very _last_ door, which was at a slightly offset angle compared to the rest of them –

His own personal cabin.

It was not a _certain_ plan, no, it was anything _but –_ yet, it was the best he _had_ at the current moment.

Turning his back towards the door, the Polarian used his shoulder to carefully push it open before passing the rest of the way through the doorframe and into the small, cramped room – there must have been three square feet of available floor space at _most._

The marksman did not seem to take particular _note_ of where he _was,_ at the current moment, presumably still lost in this state of semi – unconsciousness, or the clockwork equivalent of it, _disorientation,_ and he did not struggle or resist whatsoever when Vladimir laid his frame, his torso drenched with his own _blood,_ onto the box bed.

Of course, although he did seem relatively subdued now, the Polarian scavenger knew, it would likely not be so in a few hours, now that he was out of the harsh environment of the wastelands - and he would have to wait until _then_ to decide upon further action.

But for now, it was obvious that the wisest choice would be as he had done, to keep the soldier hidden within the cabin, out of sight from his now – returning shipmates – for if there was one thing that had been made _absolutely_ clear during the years that he had sailed with them, it was their unwavering _hatred_ of the clockwork soldiers of the Armada.

And if they were to see _this one –_

It would most definitely _not_ end well.

* * *

 **I hope you enjoyed, and please do leave a review!**

 **\- Severina**


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4: Scarred**

Decimus had never _truly_ slipped into a state of blackness, into a state of _unconsciousness,_ as the humans would have put it – but it had been awfully close.

His senses had been flipped around, one could say, they had been twisted far beyond their own capacity, driven to overlap and contract all at the same time and placing him into the rather _dangerously_ vulnerable state known as _disorientation,_ in which a clockwork could barely tell one input sense from the other and therefore could not even bring themselves to _move._

Yes, that did explain this state of _paralysis_ he seemed to be in –

That and the large _bloodstain_ that now covered a great majority of the area of his uniform coat, as well as the fabrics beneath his frame.

 _What?!_

On instinct, Decimus sat bolt upright in the box bed that his frame had been placed upon – only to instantly cry out in _agony,_ as it felt as if a million _knives_ had been driven in to his torso, this white – hot pain was so _overbearing._

It took several minutes before the marksman was able to work up the _courage_ to merely _glance down_ at his bloodstained, gloved hand that he had clamped over the wound, as if the visual confirmation of it would worsen the pain – and it took much _longer_ before he finally managed to pull his hand _away._

Almost _immediately,_ he regretted doing so.

His chestplate had been removed from his form, but it was obvious that whatever blade had been driven through him had been sharp enough to push through and past it, judging by how much _blood_ continued to pour out –

The wound was _abnormal,_ yes, in its size – it could not have _possibly_ come from the sword of a pirate or the dagger of any other human.

And it was _then_ that it all came _surging_ back to him in a _flash flood_ of agony.

The _frigid_ terrain, the _dread_ that had surged through him as they had unearthed the Commodore's frame, the ambush, the battle, yes –

The battle in which he had been stabbed _brutally_ by the blade of a Polarian battleaxe wielded by a warrior that was _three times_ his size.

Yes, this did indeed explain the severe _nature_ of the stab wound –

But there was more, yes, for _right_ at that instant, he had been paralyzed by fear, paralyzed by terror –

 _By her._

He had _seen_ her face, yes, her face as her flesh flaked into ash, as her blood seemed to vanish, as her skull still ever – grinned at him –

And _that_ was when it had hit him.

He had not been _terminated_ upon the battlefield, he had not bled to death, just as he had so _hoped_ for, he had not been given _mercy_ from this madwoman whose madness now seemed to plague _him_ as well.

It was decided –

She would haunt him _forevermore._

" _No - ! It…cannot…!"_

And he had flung himself from the box bed, his limbs driven by fear and fear _alone,_ as _logic_ would not have allowed him to do so – not with how the _agony_ had resonated through him the moment that his frame had connected with the floor in a most _painful_ manner.

Decimus did not know if he had screamed or not – the buzz within his processor drowned out all else, blurring his vision, mixing it together with the pain as it did with his hearing as well.

As if taunting him, the brand seemed to pulse, _ever_ so slightly, from its spot upon his throat.

 _I've got you - !_

 _MINE –_

 _GOD PLEASE no please NO this cannot be - !_

Was death too much to ask, he thought, was death too _merciful_ of a deliverance?

Perhaps the madwoman herself was fate – for the both of them were ever – tormenting, ever – cruel without relent.

He had been _doomed,_ yes, he knew – rather than _sweet_ termination, rather than _merciful_ relief, he had been given torment that would last an eternity.

* * *

"Six of them?!"

Vladimir was in shock – he himself had only been able to carry four of the Polarian battleaxes himself, as they did _weigh_ a great amount – but once again, it did seem that he had been _outdone_ by Ivan, one of the more experienced crewmembers –

As well as his own childhood friend, and the individual who had _introduced_ him into this _profession._

" _Da – "_

The other had initially replied in their foreign tongue –

"What were you _expecting?_ That you would somehow manage to _match_ my strength?"

Of _course_ he had expected this – after all, Vladimir himself was barely twenty years of age, which was truly young as compared to Ivan himself, or to the rest of the crew – who were all around twenty-five, give or take a few years.

The older scavenger gave a deep chuckle of an almost _playful_ nature as Vladimir scoffed, heaving two of the battleaxes into the air in order to place them onto their respective shelf within the massive storage hold of the ship.

"I will one day, _just you – "_

"But it does not look as if it will be _today!"_

It was perhaps possible to _hear_ Ivan's smug smirk as Vladimir struggled to suppress his own indignant snarl.

After all, he _was_ five years younger than even the crewmembers closest to his own age – and such was to be _expected._

And even so, it did not make him any _less_ valuable – for this time, he had retrieved a particular weapon that had _never_ been obtained by any of the members of his crew before.

"All you talk of is the brute _strength_ you possess, Ivan – "

And perhaps this was _not_ such a good idea, but –

" _I_ was able to obtain an _Armada_ rifle!"

" _What?!"_

Yes, it was _just_ as he had predicted –

Finding clockwork weapons had been one of the so – called _unattainable_ targets, more a dream than a feasible achievement.

"You're joking."

" _Nyet."_ To prove his point, Vladimir reached up and pulled the narrow barrel of the marksman's rifle forwards so that it hung slightly off of the shelf – only _just_ enough for the other scavenger to see before pushing it back.

"A _marksman's rifle,_ my God…you're going to tell the Captain about this, right?"

And _of course_ the younger scavenger had replied in the affirmative, and they had exchanged a few more short words of no real meaning, their speech laced _heavily_ with their Polarian accents – even though each one was _different,_ as they had come from different _parts_ of the nation, each having spoken a different dialect, this world was so _large._

In reality, Vladimir knew, he had obtained much _more_ than a mere clockwork rifle –

 _I've found the soldier as well._

But he would never _dare_ to reveal it – not _now,_ not _now…_

As close as he was to Ivan, the man who might as well have been his brother, he was _relieved_ when he left the storage hold, presumably to observe some of the findings of the rest of the crew – leaving Vladimir in _complete_ silence.

That was, silence except for the soft _thumping_ noises that he could now hear in the background –

 _What - ?_

 _The soldier._

Without thinking twice, the blond – haired scavenger darted from the storage hold and down the impossibly – narrow hallway until he reached the door of his cabin, fumbling to open the door – such a simple task had turned so _difficult_ in this panic, as it always did.

Finally managing to twist the doorknob, Vladimir practically kicked the door off of its hinges only to find the clockwork marksman sprawled on the floor of the cabin in what seemed to be a rather awkward and _painful_ position, judging by how he could not even lift himself off of the floor.

But of _course,_ he thought – that wicked _stab wound_ in his torso would have made it _impossible._

Closing the door behind him, the Polarian scavenger slowly approached the marksman with an almost _unnecessary_ amount of caution – after all, these specific soldiers were fragile – framed and _defenseless_ without the weapons that they had been built and made to wield.

He had obviously _thrown_ himself from the bed – there was no _way_ that he would have been able to _stand,_ with a wound of that size – and it was only further proven by the blood that was now splattered across the floor around the marksman's frame, most definitely paralyzed by a combination of fear and shock and agony.

Cautiously, Vladimir reached out a single hand –

" _No…!"_

The Polarian had flinched back, at first, partially from shock and partially out of his own fear of the clockwork soldiers – for although they were weak – framed, they were still _soulless._

He had _nothing_ to fear.

Although the marksman did continue to weakly protest, the Polarian ignored this, instead gripping the clockwork's shoulder and flipping him onto his back, as to slow the blood loss.

" _You're safe here."_

Whether it was _true,_ Vladimir did not actually know – but it was true for the _time being,_ and it certainly was worth the effort to attempt to calm the marksman.

As weak as the soldier's voice was, presumably from blood loss and the severe disorientation that he had experienced when he had initially been found, there was still a chance that he would call _attention_ to himself – perhaps if one of his crewmates, or if the captain happened to be walking down the hallway at that _exact_ moment.

Threatening him into silence would be no _good,_ either – he had been frightened enough, it did seem, judging from how he had _begged_ for death, and from his actions just now.

" _I cannot…be…she….can…!"_

" _I'm going to treat your wounds."_

After all, he would surely _die_ if they weren't taken care of, with how deep the blade had pierced and the amount of blood that was _still_ spilling out.

Vladimir had forced these words from his throat more for himself than for the clockwork – as the marksman was in such a frightened state of panic that it was not likely that anything he said would register at all. Rather, these words only solidified the actions he was to take.

Being careful not to make any sudden movements that could possibly lead the soldier to believe that he was _threatening_ him, Vladimir lifted him off of the floor and onto the bloodstained box bed once more – he did not _protest,_ as he was too paralyzed by pain to do so.

And perhaps this was a good thing, in a way – at least for the time being.

The marksman's thin arms were locked in place around his own torso, one hand clamped over the wound as if he was attempting to hold the blood within his frame.

It truly was quite _ironic,_ Vladimir realized as he carefully worked at the fastenings on the soldier's bloodstained coat – how he seemed to have resorted to his own _survival_ instincts, regardless of how he had _begged_ him for death out upon the deserted battlefield.

However, such was to be expected – for even within mortal beings who wished to end themselves for a plethora of reasons, the instinct of _self – preservation_ had never truly _vanished._

The fabric of the marksman's coat was _thoroughly_ bloodstained – in fact, it was absolutely _soaked,_ and it took several minutes before Vladimir was able to pull it from the clockwork's form, especially since he had initially refused to move his hand _away_ from the wound for even a _single_ second.

The wounded marksman had been wearing a white shirt underneath his uniform jacket, yes – but it had been almost _completely_ stained a shade of deep, dark red, and it was practically _plastered_ to his flesh.

Now that Vladimir had been forced to _physically_ pull the soldier's thin arms away from his own torso so that he could remove the pieces of his uniform, the seriousness of the wound was _clear –_ it seemed to have no _end_ to its depth, as if it had just stopped short of piercing directly through him.

And it seemed that the soldier was _aware_ of this, as well – he was not _screaming_ nor _shouting_ in pain, no – rather, he remained silent save for these small, almost nonexistent noises that were more of _fear_ than of pain itself.

It was a _pitiful_ sight, as if the fates had _decided_ to be _especially_ cruel in stopping the marksman's injuries just _short_ of death.

Being careful not to agitate the wound further, the scavenger now moved to the collar of the marksman's shirt, carefully peeling the thin fabric away from his form and revealing the _ripped_ flesh underneath.

It was then that the clockwork soldier gave a short cry of _agony –_ although it was quickly stifled by Vladimir's own hand, for this could _not_ be discovered – not if this soldier was to remain alive and intact.

However, this time, he was not as _compliant._

Rather than remaining stiff and unmoving (given that his hands had been forcibly pulled away from the bleeding wound), the marksman had _thrashed_ upon being silenced, _desperately_ trying to pull the scavenger's hand from his face.

His frame was weak and thin as compared to the Polarian, but he wasstill _fast –_ and Vladimir had to plant a knee on his chest in order to prevent him from again flinging himself to the ground and further opening his own wound.

"I swear to _God,_ I'm not trying to _hurt_ you!"

As if his words had been those of some _otherworldly_ being, the marksman now ceased _all_ movement, and the only noise penetrating the silence was the sound of the soldier's _hyperventilation._

Although Vladimir had not known that the Armada clockworks had the capability to _respirate_ in the first place, in almost _all_ other cases, hyperventilation was a sign of panic.

And thus, he waited patiently for it to subside before removing his hand from the soldier's mouth and softly speaking –

"Your wounds are serious. They need to be bound – "

" _She…can find…!"_

"You're _safe_ here."

Whether or not his words were _believed,_ Vladimir truly had no idea.

However, the clockwork made no further rebuttal or retaliation – and in this particular case, he supposed, it was a _good_ sign.

" _She…cannot – ?"  
_

"No."

Of course, he had no _idea_ who the marksman was speaking of, nor if _she_ could actually be avoided – but for now, he would say whatever was necessary in order to calm the soldier.

"I'm going to wrap your wound – but we cannot afford to be discovered."

"What – "

"You _cannot_ make a _sound._ "

They then waited in silence before the marksman nodded in acknowledgement, once, then twice – and Vladimir resumed pulling the blood – soaked shirt from his form, dropping the now – maroon fabric at the foot of the bed before reaching into the chest that had been placed on the floor a few feet away and pulling out what seemed to be a bottle of vodka and _many_ lengths of bandages.

They were _crude_ medical supplies, yes – but it was an essential standard for all sailors of all worlds and kinds.

Carefully doubling a length of bandaging several times over itself so that it was now only the width of his palm, Vladimir poured the potent alcohol onto it so that the bandages were practically _soaked_ –

"It will be painful."

Forcing himself _not_ to hesitate, the Polarian pushed down onto the marksman's chest with one hand as to prevent him from thrashing further before pressing the vodka – drenched bandages to the _impossibly_ deep stab wound –

And the marksman _screamed_.

Luckily, he had managed to bring his own slender – fingered hand to his mouth as to block the sound, but there was _nothing_ that could possibly banish the sensation of pain from his frame, from his processor, it resonated through him a hundred times, a _thousand_ times over.

Of course, he did know that the alcohol had been for sterilization purposes, but that had not made it any _less_ painful.

 _Oh GOD, let it end - !  
_

However, the Polarian did not seem to be swayed or influenced by his muffled cries and he _refused_ to relent the pressure that he had placed upon the wound – perhaps for the better.

Vladimir himself was not _familiar_ withthe anatomy of a clockwork well enough as to if these sorts of wounds would fester or not – but he _refused_ to take any chances.

It was several minutes later when Vladimir had finally removed the makeshift disinfectant from the marksman's wound, and he practically _collapsed_ in relief, only vaguely aware of the scratching of fabric against his skin as Vladimir now wound several lengths of bandages tightly around his narrow waist (as well as the rest of his torso) and tying it securely, so that it would not slip and allow the wound to re – open.

This part of the process had not been _nearly_ as painful as the sterilization – the soldier had not reacted at _all,_ it did seem, presumably still in shock from the significant _absence_ of pain as compared to before.

Now having finished the task of _binding_ the massive wound, the Polarian leaned back against the wall at the foot of the small box bed, his green – grey eyes fluttering shut in a similar sort of temporary exhaustion.

His mind had been hardened by a life of anarchy and struggling to survive, yes – but that did not change the fact that he was _young,_ barely even _twenty,_ and it was quite a _strenuous_ task for Vladimir to take the _proper_ actions in these tense and frightening scenarios.

It was only when the marksman's arms twitched that Vladimir's attention was directed back to him – only to see the soldier attempting to push himself upright into a sitting position, regardless of how _little_ time had passed since he had been found _paralyzed_ in pain upon the floor.

"You have a name?"

Whether this was a smart or a stupid question to ask this clockwork, he did not know – but for all he knew, it would be easier to get his attention, if needed, in this manner.

Perhaps –

"Decimus."

And they had not spoken any further afterwards.

Instead, the marksman – _Decimus,_ the Polarian now knew – simply lay still and silent, watching as even now, the blood from his wounds soaked through the first few layers of bandages, appearing as a faint, but _dark_ patch upon his torso covered by several more layers of white – while Vladimir himself attempted to _comprehend_ what had _just happened._

It had almost seemed _too easy_ to gain the soldier's trust –

 _Or is it really trust?_

After all, he reminded himself, the clockworks were not _living_ creatures – they were beings driven by gears and made of metal and wire.

They were _lifeless,_ they were _soulless,_ they were nothing more than fragile, pretty, _merciless_ marionettes.

Yes, Decimus had surrendered to him _for the time being,_ and yes, he had told him his name – but there was no telling as to what it _meant._

It did not mean that they were _allies,_ no – but for _now,_ they had a common goal – to remain _undiscovered._

And as long as they shared this goal, Decimus would comply.

* * *

 **I hope you enjoyed, and please leave a review - I'd love to know what you guys think!**

 **\- Severina**


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5: Return**

Below the decks of the ship of the Polarian patrol, Servus Albus waited – even though he did not particularly know what he was waiting _for._

It had been _hours_ since he had been delivered back to the ship, and yet, they had not departed – and that was because the rest of the patrol had not returned, regardless of the fact that the next patrol had already been sent and arrived.

In fact, the second ship was directly next to them, carrying the soldiers who were to complete the next patrol – but as protocol demanded it, they could not disembark until the current ship had left the docking area.

And thus, they waited.

It was not _unpleasant,_ at least not for the Captain himself, for the nine soldiers that had taken him back while the rest of the patrol had been sent to retrieve the Commodore's frame – for they had carried him below decks and draped several thick blankets over him, in order to melt any ice that had formed on his internal gear systems – or so they had told him.

It was almost as if they had been _prepared_ for it.

Then again, such was to be _expected –_ especially when they were built and made to constantly patrol a terrain as harsh as _this._

Yes, they were indeed made and intended for such environments as the Polarian wastelands – unlike himself.

 _And the Commodore._

The pain that accompanied this thought alone was practically _physical,_ for he felt as if some unseen force had driven a blade directly through his torso.

His Commodore, his hero, she was – just as a human mother would do to protect her children, just as a lioness would do to protect her cubs from the menacing jaws and claws of a hyena, Prima had given up her own _function_ in order to ensure his own.

Servus doubted that he would _ever_ be able to recover from the _guilt_ (or so the humans had called it) that had now laid itself down upon his thin chest.

Yes, he would never recover because he would never _forget –_

He would never forget the soothing, even tone of her voice that seemed _that_ much more relieving after having the cries and screeches and _laughs_ of the insane witchdoctor _echoing_ within his memories – he would never forget how she had gripped his frame closer to hers using the backs of the wrists, her hands having been rendered immobile, rendered _unusable_ so that _he_ could _survive._

Had he been able to dream, he knew, she would have _filled_ them forevermore – both the most pleasant ones and the nightmares, with her reassuring words and with her frozen, _unmoving_ frame.

Out of all the horrors of battle that Servus Albus had witnessed, seen, and committed, _nothing_ had come close to shaking him as this had.

She had _been there_ when he had first been placed into function, just as she had with all of the clockworks had ever seen and served with – she was constant, she was eternal, outlasted by none but the elites themselves.

And he had seen the eternal fade away, he knew –

Perhaps this spoke of _inevitable_ doom, for himself, for Valencia, for the Armada and their order – perhaps it was a symbol of foreboding, of warning.

Servus now turned to the soldiers that were on either side of him, each one of them keeping a firm grip on his forearms, likely more out of protocol than out of caution.

"The Commodore – "

"Her frame will be retrieved and returned to the ship."

Just as Albus had expected, the reply of the musketeer to his left had been instantaneous – however, he had no true way of telling or verifying whether or not this was out of reassurance or if it was truly _factual._

Yes, he had told the commanding officer her location, and _yes_ , he had been there long enough to see him order the rest of the patrol to now proceed in _that_ direction, but that was allthat he could be _certain_ of.

Whether it would proceed as planned, as expected or not, he had no way of telling.

However, it had seemed that the fates, if they did _exist,_ had heard him – for just then, the rhythmic pounding of footsteps could be heard across the deck above them, and three more musketeers all but _fell_ down the staircase that led to the hold, where they were now, in their great hurry.

And it was an _appropriate_ hurry indeed – for between them, they were bearing the stiff and unmoving frame of the Commodore Prima herself.

Perhaps this was how the humans had _reacted,_ how they had _felt_ when looking upon the corpse or cadaver of a close relation or friend, Servus thought – for upon first sight, he had gone completely _rigid,_ as if he had been frozen along with her.

 _Gone, and TAKEN –_

 _Never to return._

Seemingly momentarily forgetting of his weakened state, Albus flung himself up from where he had been sitting, _lunging_ forwards in an effort to even catch a _single_ further glance of her frame, as if this mere action would cause her to reanimate –

Naturally, it did nothing of the sort – and he had only caught sight of her for a little more than a _second_ before he toppled to the ground, his legs not _quite_ able to support him again just yet.

And it was not just his _legs,_ no, it was his frame, his _entire_ being –

He had gone numb.

Servus Albus truly did not know _what_ he had expected, he realized, only blankly sifting through these thoughts as the musketeers that had been flanking him now moved to retrieve him – she had been as he had last seen her.

 _Frozen –_

 _Unresponsive and unmoving._

 _Terminated,_ yes _,_ or _dead,_ as the mortal beings would have said, and now the soldiers were pulling him up, pulling him back to the bench against the wall, they were telling him how it was _unwise to move so quickly at this point,_ how his calibration was _unstable and disoriented,_ and he blocked _all_ of it out, the soldiers' grips on his arms rendering him helpless as the Commodore's frame was taken away.

And he had thought that was _all,_ that they would now return without much further conflict –

When, in a similar fashion as before, a _great_ number of the soldiers of the patrol rushed down, following the path that the soldiers bearing the Commodore had taken –

And just as those first soldiers had been, they were also carrying the frames of _terminated_ clockworks.

Somehow, amongst the paralyzing _panic_ that had now set off within his processor, Servus was able to _comprehend_ exactly what this meant.

There had been an attack upon them – by _whom_ or _what,_ however, he did not know.

However, the frantic shouting and panicked, alerted speech of the soldiers clearly told all that he would have otherwise asked to be notified of –

How many –

Twenty – two!

 _Half of the squadron?!_

A Polarian ambush, a surprise attack, undetected, and in the _end_ they had just _barely_ managed to get away – and the Armada Captain's horror only grew with each new piece of information that he managed to string together.

The Commanding officer of the squadron, who had somehow managed to escape this apparent onslaught _alive_ (albeit with multiple visible wounds), had then turned to address the remainder of the patrol, ordering them to place the frames of the terminated in the designated area within the hold, to return to the deck, to set sail _immediately –_

Immediately, to return to the fortress –

To Valencia, to _Cadiz,_ just as he should have _months_ ago, perhaps _years_ ago – he had lost track of the time in the massive blur made up of the days that he had spent under the captivity of _Dangler_ of the Island.

The remaining clockworks had obviously _shared_ his sense of urgency, Servus then noticed – for it was not long before he felt the ship give that familiar great _lurch,_ indicating that they had began their travel back to the heart of the clockwork Armada, their _motherland._

Strangely, the motion of the ship, as shaky as it was from the howling winds of this world, did do wonders to _calm_ the Captain, as well as _many_ of the soldiers aboard the ship – it was as if the gears of a much _larger_ machine, much like the gears within them, had been set into motion, restoring order and right and _routine._

They did _thrive_ off of such things, after all.

Follow routine, _adhere_ to the routine – it was what the clockworks of the Armada fell back upon at times like these, when all else had seemed to fail them.

Check the weapons – their functionality, the damage taken, the number retained, both from the functioning and the terminated –

And of course, there was the identification of the terminated soldiers themselves.

Servus knew it all, it was so deeply _ingrained_ within him, for he had overseen them before among the soldiers of his own Cadre – strangely, this did bring him some _comfort._

The two musketeers that had remained by his side ever since he had been brought back to the ship had now left their positions, presumably to carry out their tasks elsewhere on deck – they would likely be much more _needed_ now, now that almost _half_ of the squadron had been terminated in this _ambush._

And therefore, there was nothing _stopping_ him, nothing holding him back as Servus Albus shakily stood, remaining still for a few seconds in order to regain his balance before crossing over to the low table upon which they had placed the frame of the Commodore.

He felt the same sense of _dread,_ that horrid pit that was _uncertainty_ and _hesitation_ within him twist wickedly as he looked upon her –

Upon how _awkwardly_ her frame seemed to be angled, mostly due to the position in which her limbs had been frozen.

This in itself seemed to strike him harder than _anything_ else – how her arms were still slightly outstretched from her torso, as if still coiled around his frame as they had been within that cave, the small strips of fabric around her wrist that she had used as _tourniquets_ now damp from the melting icicles clinging to the cuffs of her shirt.

Even in termination, even in _death,_ she still looked only for him, she acted only for him.

 _I'm here,_ Servus wanted to say, _do not worry, do not fear – I am present, I am functioning._

And perhaps he could indeed say those words, he knew, if he did wish – but nothing would _become_ of it.

Never would she rise again.

 _Never –_ no matter how _loud_ he shouted, or how _perfectly_ he saluted, or how _desperately_ he threw himself before her empty, empty frame and _pleaded her_ to _come back, come back, do not leave me, do not leave me after you have saved me so._

Despite having been introduced to fear of the _highest_ degree thanks to Dangler and her _nightmarish_ methods, Servus had still maintained a great majority of his logic, the thought process at which his programming was based almost entirely on – and thus, he did not _act_ upon any of this.

Rather, he simply reached out and slipped his own slender – fingered hand into hers with an almost _ridiculous_ amount of caution, as if the now – stiff digits would have snapped at the slightest contact.

And, as expected – or as was _unexpected –_ she had not responded.

In a way, this was the _final_ confirmation for the clockwork Captain –

 _She has left, she is gone, the Commodore Prima is gone._

And so it would remain.

* * *

When the ship had pulled back into the docking area of the fortress of Cadiz, Albus had felt nowhere _near_ the amount of relief – or rather, the absence of fear – that he had _anticipated._

Rather, he did not feel at all.

This was not _bad,_ he had initially concluded, as such were how clockworks were meant to function, without emotion, without any exterior influence other than their immediate surroundings and logic – but one would _think,_ yes, that after _all_ that he had endured, there would have been _some_ amount of change.

 _Perhaps it is for the better._

It was then that the ship had jolted to an abrupt stop, and the resulting _thud_ of the anchor could be felt reverberating throughout the entirety of it – and Albus had no time to question his own thought process any further.

After all, such would be uncovered when he was to draw a report – part of the protocol that had been embedded within him for as long as he had been in function.

Now standing once more, Albus attempted to gather what shreds of his own coordination still remained as two of the soldiers descended below decks, obviously having been sent to retrieve the Commodore – and they did exactly this, stepping around him and lifting her frame between them and returning to the deck.

And he was to do the same, he did suppose.

Albus' mind was blank; it was _void_ as he ascended the staircase to the main deck of the ship, upon which the remaining soldiers of the patrol squadron had assembled into formation, two of them standing directly next to the gangplank that would lead to the fortress itself.

They were to escort him, yes.

How strange it was, Albus found as he now moved forwards and down the gangplank, that he could find _nothing_ else to calculate – for there _were_ no more uncertainties, there was nothing to truly _ponder,_ for here, everything was _certain,_ yes.

Everything was _certain,_ everything was _numb._

And it was all because one of those things that was _certain_ was the fact that the Commodore was _gone._

Albus had not continued moving once he had stepped onto the docks, even though his gaze certainly had – it had followed the two soldiers carrying the Commodore's frozen frame, taking her _away, away_ from him forever.

His superior, his savior.

"Captain Albus."

The musketeer officer had almost flinched _visibly_ upon being addressed, even though it had been by his own _counterpart,_ Servus Carbo _–_ the counterpart that perhaps would have prevented all of _this_ from happening – the torment that he had suffered, the loss of the Commodore – if only the Black Cadre had been sent with him as well.

"Although perhaps you have not heard – "

 _Of what,_ Albus wondered, for there had undoubtedly been _thousands_ of events that had occurred during his absence –

"You are to be addressed as _Commander,_ as of now."

And _this_ had _certainly_ not been one of them.

"What…?!"

 _Commander?!_

How could this _be_ correct, he had initially thought, our leader is _Supreme Commander Kane –_

"Indeed, they have not told you, brother – a group of pirates, as well as a single rogue clockwork identified as musketeer Custos Quintus had launched an attack on the Lord Kane."

"And they were… _successful…?!"_

It was as if the marine officer's words had _completely_ drained him of any strength that had miraculously remained in his frame at that moment, and there was a brief second of great commotion as the surrounding soldiers rushed to grab hold of Albus' arms before he could _fully_ collapse to the floor.

 _The Supreme Commander has been terminated?!_

"Only partially."

 _What –_

"They did not succeed in _terminating him –_ rather, they had managed to _incapacitate_ the Lord Kane."

"And he – "

" – Cannot act on behalf of the Armada any longer – not for the time being."

Yet, this _still_ did not make any sense to him – for how _could_ the command of the _entire_ clockwork Armada had fallen to the both of them in such a short instant?

Of course, he had answered his own inquiry within seconds –

 _The Commodore is gone._

Had she been functioning still, she would have taken on the role, she would have taken up the position, the Command, and she would have led them strong and well.

But such would never be, it would never _ever_ be – for she was _gone._

"I see."

Albus' own words even _felt_ hollow to him as they sounded, for he _was_ hollow, both figuratively and literally.

His processor was hollow, his memory was hollow –

Hollow and _numb._

The marine officer, Carbo, had likely known that his musketeer counterpart was in something akin to what most mortal beings would have dubbed to be a state of _shock,_ and he had firmly (but gently) gripped his shoulder, now guiding him steadily away from the docking area and into the hallways of the fortress itself.

Perhaps the appropriate reaction would be to act _relieved_ to be in Valencia again, within the fortress again, Albus had initially thought – but there was nothing of the sort to be found within him.

There was nothing of _anything_ to be found within him.

 _I will lead you to Bishop's workplace,_ he could hear his marine brother and counterpart say, Carbo's deeper voice somehow sounding much more far – off and distant than it _should_ have – _so that a report may be drawn._

They were following _protocol,_ yes, of course – something to fall _back_ on when all else failed, when _logic_ and when _calculations_ had failed, just as they had for him now.

Unfortunately, Carbo was required to leave him after Albus had entered through the massive doors that led to the mage's workshop, and the musketeer could no longer draw strength from the other clockwork.

Instead, he was to face his memories alone.

His memories of the attack, of Hunter Chamberlain and his mad, emaciated lover, of their escape and of the Polarian wastelands – and of _Prima._

Perhaps he would experience her death within his own calculations and speculations, he thought, when he was to recall it for the high mage to record – and just _now,_ had he been human, he would have _laughed_ at himself, yes – for he had grown so _weak._

So weak, and so _fearful –_

 _Commodore, how can I ever command?!_

* * *

 **I hope you enjoyed, and do be sure to leave a review!**

 **\- Severina**


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6: Mother Machine**

It was all routine, all as expected, all as planned, as ordered – and although some part of Albus had been quite relieved that this was so, that functions had finally returned to the way that they were _supposed_ to be, it was _impossible_ to ignore that most of all, he felt nothing – he felt _numb._

 _Completely._

Before him, Bishop, the clockwork mage, now stood with a tablet and a quill pen at the ready, obviously to draw the report, as was _routine._

This was how it went for every soldier who had returned from a situation as this, and Albus himself was no different. This was _vital,_ yes, especially when taking into consideration how _dangerous_ an individual such as Dangler truly was.

"Describe your captor."

And _regardless_ of how many times he truly had rehearsed this to himself before as they were sailing back to Valencia, Albus had frozen.

 _Dangler._

"She is tall, unusually tall, and _emaciated…_ "

It had been a miracle that he had even been able to force these simple facts out alone, for recalling her also brought back the memories of _what_ she had done to him, of the many scars that she had left in his flesh, and of the Commodore's death, which she had ultimately caused.

Albus could only be grateful that he possessed the processor of an officer, lest he end up unstable and unable to function, much as the soldier, Presidos Decimus, her initial victim, had become.

And naturally, as the Captain of the White Cadre – turned - Commander continued on with his description, Bishop had taken note of this.

He hesitates, Bishop had observed, the most _obvious_ of Albus' flaws appearing to him right away – and it is due to the fact that he is _fearful_ to speak, not for getting his information wrong, but of the memories it brings back for him.

Even now, Bishop could still remember the day that the trembling, traumatized marksman – _Decimus –_ had stood in this room, in this position before him now, struggling to even force out a comprehensive _word,_ his legs shaking so that he had to be held upright by two marines.

There were similarities indeed –

"And she had frequently attempted to…to _force herself_ upon me…"

 _In Decimus' case, she had succeeded,_ Bishop had internally recalled – he could remember such without even looking down _once_ at the marksman's report, which was also upon the tablet, beside the blank sheet of parchment that would soon be filled by Albus' own words and recollections.

Yes, there were similarities – her affection, her sickening _desire,_ although her physical _appearance_ had certainly changed – she had become thin, sickly, skeletal, wasted away by her own consuming obsession.

Such had been expected, yes, especially given the _decade_ that had passed ever since this _madwoman_ had obtained Decimus, which had seemed to kickstart her descent into absolute _insanity._

And just as it had been with Decimus, the longer that Albus spoke, the more easily his words seemed to flow, increasing in tempo, in tension, in _fear_ until it became _frantic –_

"Captain."

Bishop had silenced the musketeer officer by raising a single hand, and Albus quickly halted his speech, his _hyperventilation_ now _audible._

"Forgive me, high mage, I had gotten… _carried away._ "

 _But of course,_ Bishop thought, carefully finishing the last of his sentences upon the now – full sheet of parchment – how could one _not,_ after enduring such an experience when clockworks were made to calculate in circumstances of _certainty?_

And now, the last question, _always_ asked according to procedure –

"Is there anything in addition that you have to reveal, Commander?"

" _Negative_."

 _Thank God,_ Albus was likely thinking, that he did not have to endure this torturous recollection for any longer.

Bishop had stood then, gathering the still – drying papers upon his tablet and making his way to the door, his job for now having been completed –

"High Mage."

And Bishop halted in his tracks, slowly turning back around to face Albus as so that he would not fling the papers about with any sudden movements.

"I am at your service, _Commander._ "

Albus had hesitated for a brief second before speaking again, before giving an _order –_

"Take me to the Lord Kane."

"He is inca – "

"I am _aware._ "

Unlike before, Albus' words were now _unusually_ confident, and laced with an authority that had most definitely _not_ been there before, and even though Bishop would have had to obey him regardless of his state of mind, this did certainly _add_ to the gravity of his words.

Albus had then allowed the mage to lead him out of the room they were currently in and through the endless, winding hallways of Cadiz, the heart of the Armada, the castle that was now _his_ and his counterpart's to command –

Eventually, Bishop had then stopped before a single sealed door at the end of one of the centermost hallways – the safest location to be in the case of a bombardment – and the mage quickly pulled out a rather large key from one of his pockets, unlocking the door before carefully pushing it open and entering before allowing Albus to as well, closing the door equally as silently, as if afraid to disturb the precariously _delicate_ atmosphere in this chamber –

And for good _reason,_ Albus had found as he now looked forwards, forwards and into the center of this room.

The chamber was bare, it was completely empty save for what did look like a sealed glass _sarcophagus_ in the very center of the room – which was what it _was,_ a sarcophagus, even though its occupant was not exactly _dead._

 _Merely incapacitated,_ they had said.

Having been stripped of his brocaded coat and medals and other pieces of fabric grandeur, Kane, the first of the clockworks, lay within this translucent coffin.

Albus had not _dared_ to move so far – but even from where he was standing, still near the only door within the chamber, the musketeer officer could see the numerous machines that were connected to the frame of the clockwork Lord, tubes running in and out of little openings in the glass, regulating the flow of blood, the flow of air, the flow of _everything,_ for _everything_ was controlled, such was how this chamber had been designed.

Now moving forwards, his feet carrying him of their own accord, Albus came close enough to the coffin so that he could reach out and place his hand upon it, if he did wish to do so – and he could _see_ the small lines of silver stitches running down the right side of the clockwork Lord's forehead, climbing up and into his hairline, where they no doubt continued extensively.

She'd bludgeoned him in the head, that was what they had _told_ him, yes – a buccaneer with the strength of a hundred, of a _thousand_ men.

"Indeed she did."

Albus had jumped at this, at the high mage's unexpected reply, and he began to wonder if he had spoken out loud, or if Bishop had simply predicted his train of thought – likely the latter, for it was what he had been programmed and _made_ to do, after all.

"They say that she had only attacked him just before he was about to murder her Captain," Bishop had mused with what did seem like slight _mirth,_ "And the three of them – she, her Captain, and her crewmate – haven't been seen since."

 _They've disappeared?!_

At these words, the Musketeer Commander wheeled around on his heel sharply to face Bishop, alarm apparent in every one of his actions –

"Have they been iden – "

" _Indeed_ they have, _Commander –_ the woman who struck the blow, the _buccaneer,_ was Samantha Hawkins, the swashbuckler was Jewel Zabra, and the Privateer Captain – "

 _The one who planned it all._

" – was Sydney Underhill."

Bishop did seem rather satisfied with himself at how _quickly_ he had been able to think ahead, at how _rapidly_ he had been able to provide the answers that the current Supreme Commander was now seeking, as if it was a game that he had frequently played with himself, always being _one step ahead._

 _Disappeared, vanished, they have not been seen, they have not –_

And they _would_ not pay for their _crimes,_ Albus concluded, until they were found.

To strike down their Lord, the _perfect being –_ it truly was the most _severe_ of all crimes.

* * *

Within the chamber just adjacent to the one in which the Lord Kane had been stabilized, water slowly dripped from the bare frame of the Commodore Prima Militus to the floor beneath the stretched out, suspended netting that she had been laid upon, forming a massive pool beneath her as the ice slowly melted from her hands, her hair, the sockets in her mask, even from her lips.

It did make for a rather eerie sight, Servus Carbo would indeed admit, seeing the Commodore in this state, this forever- unmoving state that was _termination._

Her hair had gradually become soaked as the ice melted from where it had been clinging to her hair, to her scalp, plastering it to her head and making her frame seem _all the more_ skeletal, all the more thin, even though she was _just_ as thin as every other Armada musketeer in existence.

For as long as Carbo could remember, she had been a symbol of power, the Commodore Prima had been an ever – present, ever – watching factor, a standard of militaristic control that even the _clockworks_ could only _hope_ to match.

And to think that she had been _removed_ so _suddenly –_

It was almost unbearable to think of, how much change this had brought about, how much _loss_ the clockwork forces had suffered – first the Lord Kane, and then the Commodore.

The full command of the Armada had now been passed to both Carbo and his musketeer counterpart, Albus, yes – but Albus was not exactly of the most _stable_ state, as was expected, given that he had just spent months under the captivity of what was possibly the most dangerous madwoman within the spiral, and while his _function_ was to cover for Albus' weaknesses and fallbacks at times such as this, they now had _legions_ to Command, millions of clockwork soldiers now looking to them for orders.

It truly was a rather _outrageous_ amount of pressure, and while both Carbo and Albus would take on this task without hesitation, it certainly was far less _stable_ than desired.

But for now, these responsibilities did not exist, they did not hinder –

For he was _here,_ he was with the Commodore, the clockwork officer who had commanded both him and his brother throughout their entire function up until now.

She had always been different – different in the manner that she could calculate the unknown from _nothing,_ that she could predict the unpredictable, and it did not _need_ to be said for Carbo to know that both he and Albus, as well as the soldiers in their Cadres and any other soldier who had even caught a _glimpse_ of her before had known of this remarkable ability of hers, and how much she had _contributed_ to the conquest of the clockwork forces –

 _Sixty-eight years,_ nearly seven decades in their entirety.

Her white hair was drenched now, hanging in limpid tendrils through the netting that had allowed the water to drain from her, so that Bishop would be able to properly analyze her processor, for it contained more information than _all_ of the libraries, all of the archives within the Spiral combined, and she did look a little less _rigid_ now, the ice having melted from her joints as well.

Now taking a single step forwards so that he was directly beside the Commodore's frame, pale and thin and bare, covered only by the bandages that had been wrapped across her chest and the thin undergarment that had been left upon her after what was left of her uniform had been stripped from her, as Servus had taken her coat.

 _Fragile._

It was _not_ an adjective that any clockwork or any mortal being that had ever seen her would have _dared_ to use while describing the Commodore, but it certainly did fit the sight before the marine Commander now.

A pitiful sight, one that was rather unbefitting of her, lacking the nobility that she had wielded so well.

And just as Albus had done on the ship of the Polarian patrol for a great majority of their voyage back, Carbo reached out, gently taking the Commodore's thin – fingered hand within his own with respect and reverence, as if she were a queen or a monarch of similar status.

How painful had it been, he wondered, to lose all feeling in one's frame, to lose all control, gradually, bit by bit, as one was powerless to stop this _torturously_ slow process, so slow that termination would seem to be a mercy?

Did he truly _wish_ to know?

And it was then that the Commodore's hand, pale and thin and brittle, had _twitched._

Afraid to do anything else _but_ to remain frozen, Servus did not _dare_ to move, he did not dare for fear that it had been his processor in the midst of a momentary glitch –

But then it had occurred again, and again, and _again,_ this time stronger, this time _constant,_ and he was _certain_ now, her hand was not just twitching, it was now _squeezing_ his, clutching his hand in a _death grip._

" _Commodore!"_

All hesitation had been abandoned, and Carbo now bent over her no – longer – unmoving form, for her torso was shaking, as was her entire _frame_ , shaking as if there was an earthquake within her, as if she was straining to perform every possible movement at once, as if she was having an internal seizure –

Until, with a single, great, rattling gasp, the Commodore's entire body _thrashed,_ water pouring from her lips, her sockets, the joints in her limbs, even from under her _fingernails,_ Carbo's glove quickly becoming soaked as she jerked _bolt_ upright in a single motion, her neck and head coming up a split second after the rest of her torso.

"Commodore – "

" _Commodore Prima!"_

 _She has not been terminated – !_

 _she functions!_

The other soldiers within the chamber had no doubt taken _notice_ of this as well, for a great commotion arose as the musketeers and marines that had been standing _stationary_ until now were rushing about, attempting to confirm her function, alerting others, and yet, Carbo remained the only one to _truly_ focus upon her, allowing her to grip his arm as her chest heaved, her frame struggling to eject the now – liquid water that had accumulated within her systems, the ice no longer freezing her in place, in function, in time.

And as several minutes passed, as her frame convulsed and shook, fighting against the deadly frozen lethargy, these other clockworks slowly ceased their movement, one by one, all of them having reached the solution to the unspoken enigma that had been occupying each and every one of their processors.

 _What does this mean –_

 _for the chain of command?_

As for _what_ the answer was, Carbo was both shocked and relieved – although he had waited until her frame had ceased rejecting the water that had collected with her before speaking, he had withheld his words until she was now staring _directly_ at him, every inch of her frame soaked and drenched and shaking from the cold, all while she maintained that _astounding_ air of dignity that she had been so _known_ for.

" _Supreme Commander Prima Militus,_ we await further orders."

It was quite possible hear a _pin_ drop at that very moment, in that very _instant,_ and all was silent, save for the constant dripping of water from her frame.

" _What?!"_

Her voice was hoarse, and the single word had been _scratched_ out rather than spoken, but the shock was _clear –_

For she _understood_ what this meant.

 _Supreme Commander._

Shakily, Prima stood from the stretch of netting that she had been laid on previously, her legs quivering underneath her as she wrenched her hand away from Carbo's, staggering unevenly towards the door in shock, in _anger,_ in _disbelief –_

The Command had been passed to _her,_ as the successor of the Lord Kane _,_ and such could only happen under _one_ circumstance.

"This…no, this _cannot be…!"_

And without any further warning, Prima _bolted_ towards the door of the chamber, not even _bothering_ to clutch the soaking bandages to her thin chest as they began to slip off, water droplets flying everywhichway as she _burst_ out of the door and across the hallway before quite literally flinging herself upon the adjacent door, the door which led to the stabilization chamber of the Lord Kane himself.

All the meanwhile, the clockworks that had been within the first room quickly rushed after her, attempting to stop her, to halt her, insisting that it was poor for her function, to be moving so quickly, but she heeded _none_ of their words, instead hammering the door mercilessly with her left fist as she twisted the handle with her other hand.

By the time she had undone the latches and managed to throw the door open, shaking off the arms of the soldiers attempting to restrain her as she staggered in, Bishop had already leapt to his feet, throwing his arms out in a futile effort to block the sight of the incapacitated clockwork Lord from the newly named Commander, but it was _far_ too late –

She had already seen it all.

Giving another strangled gasp, Prima had fallen to her knees before the glass sepulcher, and at first, Albus and Carbo, now once again her subordinates, had thought this to be all –

That was, before the enraged _roar_ had ripped itself from her throat like _never before_.

" _NO!"_

And she had _slammed_ her fists into the glass covering, causing Bishop to quickly rush to ensure that no damage had been caused before Prima had _shoved_ him away harshly enough so that he stumbled backwards and into the wall –

"This cannot be, this _CANNOT BE…!"_

The bandages that had once been tied around her chest had slipped to her waist now, but she did not _care,_ she did not care in the _slightest,_ for the Lord Kane was _gone,_ likely never to _return._

Instantly, Prima was back on her feet, staggering about the chamber like some sort of drunken madwoman in a state of rage that the clockwork soldiers present had _never_ seen before, not even from the _humans,_ for she was overturning the shelves of chemicals, spilling them about the ground, splinters from the shelves embedding themselves within her flesh and shards of glass nicking her arms and legs and fingers, but this was lost to her among her screams, her shrieks of utter and complete _despair._

"Commander – "

" _HOW COULD THIS HAVE HAPPENED?!"_

She was clawing at the stones of the walls with her nails, drawing blood from the beds of them as she overturned anything within her reach, shoving her own soldiers out of the way in her blind rampage –

"Supreme Commander, we _beg_ of you - !"

Until there was nothing left to turn _over,_ Kane's airtight sarcophagus having been secured to the floor, at which point Prima collapsed upon the ground among the wreckages of shelves and vials and test tubes.

"This cannot BE, no, _NO…!"_

Much like one who had lost a brother, a husband or a _child,_ Prima threw her head back and _wailed._

It was quite a dreadful noise indeed, one of agony, of despair, and of _anguish,_ some of the most frightening and _pitiful_ human emotions to have ever _existed._

For fear of acting wrongly, the clockworks in the room, including Bishop himself, had refrained from approaching her entirely as she _screeched_ her endless lament, more tortured than a banshee's song.

And then, suddenly, all had fallen silent once again, her dreadful screaming having ceased entirely, and, having inexplicably regained her grace, her dignity and protocol, Prima stood, her legs now as steady as they had been remembered to be.

As if this had activated some sort of invisible trigger within the room, _every_ clockwork present had then snapped into a salute, Albus, Carbo, and even Bishop himself included, all emotionless, trained gazes now locked on her as she stood before them, drenched and bare, but _almighty._

" _Supreme Commander."_

And with such _pure_ reverence and devotion that it would have knocked and humbled any mortal monarch to the ground with awe, her soldiers kneeled.

* * *

 **I hope you enjoyed this little surprise, and do be sure to leave a review!**

 **\- Severina**


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7: Unusual Occurrences**

"For _God's_ sake, be _careful!"_

Flailing about in an almost ridiculous manner, Andrew batted Zachary's hands away from his precious, newly – built microscope for what must have been the _fortieth_ time ever since he had first made it.

"Oh, lighten – "

" _No,_ these lenses took _forever!"_

Rolling his eyes, Zachary quickly slung his worn leather bag, heavily weighted with numerous textbooks in various conditions, over his shoulder – he _couldn't_ be late to class, not _today._

Given that he was not exactly the most _organized_ person, especially compared to his lifelong musketeer friend, it was rather frustrating for the frizzy – haired witchdoctor as he stumbled around their mess (much to Andrew's displeasure) of a house, trying to gather up his staff, the standard vials of potions, and other such needed materials as Andrew cautiously stepped out of the way.

This was quite _uncharacteristic_ behavior indeed.

"What's all the rush about...?"

He had not been displaying such actions five _minutes_ ago, even – but then again, Zachary Zest was likely one of the most spontaneous beings in the entire _spiral._

"Can't talk right now – I'm going be late for _demonstration exams!"_

And with that, he rushed out of the already – open front door, leaving Andrew rather baffled and confused.

 _Demonstration exams?_

It had taken slightly longer for the musketeer to recall – given that hoodoo was a magic that came from within an individual, there was much more variation in the standards taught in the witchdoctor classes as compared to his own musketeer training sessions.

Therefore, rather than working through a standard routine as a final examination of sorts, as Andrew had done to pass his own advanced sessions, Zachary would have to _demonstrate_ his own mastery using any method of his choosing.

Carefully stepping back around his worktable, taking care as not to accidentally tip any one of his precious contraptions over, Andrew considered _following_ his friend – after all, it was not as if _he_ had any sessions to go to himself, given that he had chosen not to attend the master sessions in order to better focus on his own work.

After all, if anything, it would be an observational experience, and the musketeer would at least gain _some_ amount of knowledge as to how the most advanced witchdoctors trained.

It was only then that Andrew realized that by now, Zachary was _far_ ahead of him – and quickly dashed out of the door, sprinting through the winding alleyways and streets to catch up to him, colliding with and nearly knocking over the shorter witchdoctor in the process.

" _Oof - !_ "

"Sorry!"

" _Watch_ it – oh, it's you."

Zachary quickly lowered his staff, which he had raised upon instinct, as the musketeer dusted off his _impossibly_ thick – lensed glasses and thanked whatever higher being was watching over him that they had not broken – for he was almost quite literally _blind_ without them.

"Hey – _wait!_ "

Much to Andrew's dismay, Zachary had not slowed his own frantic speedwalking pace in the slightest, and he was once again forced to run to catch up and keep up with him, earning him a rather confused look from the witchdoctor.

"Wait a minute…why're _you_ following me?"

Still struggling to keep from showing just _how_ tired (and out of shape) he truly was by suppressing the shallow gasps that his body urged him to take, Andrew quickly explained his own curiosity in as few words as possible with as little _awkwardness_ as possible –

"Sure, that's fine – " Zachary had replied, much to Andrew's relief (and humiliation, as the witchdoctor was not short of breath in the slightest) – "but make sure to stay out of sight. It's not against the rules or anything, it's just that Madame Vadima's been on edge and all, with…"

 _That's right,_ Andrew remembered – _Dangler's dead._

Even _thinking_ these words sent a sort of _chill_ down his spine as he recalled the circumstances of her death as they had been relayed to him via Zachary –

 _Underhill stabbed her._

 _Underhill –_

 _Sydney Underhill, privateer of the Resistance, Captain of the Grand Fife._

It seemed unthinkable, for her – Underhill – to have gone _defective –_ but indeed she _had,_ the unimaginable had occurred.

Even _knowing_ this created a sort of apocalyptic sensation of _doom_ within the pit of the musketeer's stomach, and it had taken a great deal of his effort to force it to retreat, to slither away and coil up within the back corners of his mind.

Such was only a temporary solution, of course, but there were _other_ things to think about – such as his best friend's exam demonstration.

 _If he passes this, he'll be considered a master witchdoctor – one of the few!_

They had arrived at the sanctum shortly after, and just as Zachary had instructed him to, Andrew hid himself behind one of the bushes at the very entrance, ensuring that he would not be seen by either the instructors or any of the trainees – even while giving him a decent view of any activity within the sanctum.

As Zachary continued through the entrance and onwards, Andrew's eyes followed him as he walked through the sanctum and seated himself amongst the many cushions upon the floor, as all of the other trainees had done –

He was not late, it did appear – rather, he had made it just on time.

 _Good._

Madame Vadima now rose from where she had been seated off within one of the darker corners, walking to the center of the room as she briefly talked the few trainees present – it was a _master_ class, after all – through the procedure of the final demonstrations.

There truly had not been much to say: from what Andrew could hear, they would, one by one, stand, perform all spells in increasing order of difficulty, and then perform their final spell of choosing – which could be _anything,_ whether it had been covered in Vadima's sessions or not.

This had all been relatively easy to absorb, and therefore, Andrew did not pay much attention to it – rather, he had been watching the other aspects of the witchdoctor trainer.

Her pattern of speech, her unfocused eyes, the way that her body almost seemed to sag in posture, indicating the loss of that proud air that she most usually carried –

It was as if one of her own spells had been turned on her, draining her of any and all energy, and really, it did make _sense._

She was mourning Dangler, Andrew knew – her own legendary prodigy who was, more or less, a _daughter_ to her, and it was _understandable –_ it was quite a pitiful sight, in fact, as Vadima was so _known_ throughout the island for being _proud._

Andrew had found himself paying much more attention to this, pondering much harder about this than he should have – for the first few demonstrations had gone by in what felt like mere _seconds_ to the musketeer, even though he did not feel too bad for having been distracted – they had been nothing stellar, and their one final spell had merely been a repeat of the most advanced – Wyvern's Spell it was, if the musketeer's memory had been as infallible as before.

Naturally, Zachary would be last, Andrew knew – for his last name, Zest, placed him at the ultimate disadvantage when it came to doing things by alphabetical order – and given that the other trainees were nothing special, from what the musketeer could observe, he felt no guilt in simply zoning out, as most would put it, for the time being.

Even Vadima herself did not seem to be focused – and he truly could not blame her. How _could_ he, when it was more than certain that in every spell, in every demonstration of power, she saw _Dangler?_

Luckily for the both of them, perhaps, these demonstrations had seemed to pass by _extremely_ quickly, from then on out – and before long, Zachary was standing, lifting his staff and walking to the center of the sanctum, just as all others had done before him.

Perhaps it was due to the fact that Zachary was Andrew's lifelong friend, close enough to perhaps be considered his brother, but the moment that he had started casting even the simplest spell, Andrew had sensed something _different._

Was it his demeanor, Andrew wondered?

That was certainly a possibility – but perhaps it was that _distinctly_ green glow within his golden eyes that had most definitely _not_ been there before.

And Vadima had most _definitely_ noticed this as well, it did seem – for she had suddenly straightened her posture in her sitting position and focused her own gaze upon him, paying Zachary and his demonstration routine more attention than she had given the rest of her trainees combined.

He had powered through the standard spells as quickly as he could, and yet, he had managed to maintain quality and precision the _entire_ time – ghostwail, jobu's breath, soulreaver –

All performed to maximum potential.

The trainees before had just gone through the motions, yes, but Zachary had gone beyond that –

He had completed the routine of spells in no time, or so it seemed – and now, his final spell.

Andrew had half expected him to perform Wyvern's spell again, for even if he had, it still would have _impressed_ him – but he had not.

Rather, Zachary had done something that Andrew had _never_ seen before.

Extinguishing any green flames left over from his previous spell with a single wave of his hand, Zachary now yanked the dagger that he always carried free from the sheath upon his belt, pushing back his sleeve before making a long, vertical cut on the very back of his forearm.

 _Dammit, what are you doing?!_

At the sight of the blood dripping from his friend's arm, Andrew felt the color abruptly drain from his face – carnage or gore of even the _slightest_ degree had never truly been his forte – and he struggled to defy his instincts and _not_ to rush out and shake the witchdoctor to his senses.

Zachary had never done anything without a purpose, as spontaneous as he truly was – and judging by the complete lack of response that he had received from the other trainees, this was something that they had seen before, and thus, Andrew let him be.

Strangely, Zachary had remained almost perfectly calm, even with his own left forearm quickly becoming drenched in his own blood. The knife was then returned to its sheath, and the witchdoctor now trained his eyes upon the large wound as this strange, surreal glow within his usually – golden eyes had grown ever brighter, only to give rise to green flames, green flames which had come from his hands to wrap and coil up his arms and his shoulders, somehow refraining from burning him even though they came in direct contact with his flesh.

He had not even _spoken –_ Zachary had merely concentrated his gaze upon the weeping wound – and right before Andrew's ever – observant eyes, the cut had then _sealed._

Andrew's eyes had grown _wide_ with shock, and he was quite fortunate indeed that the rest of the trainees had been so intently focused upon Zachary's demonstration, otherwise they would have heard him gasp as well –

 _What is this?!_

It was green magic, yes, but there was no _way_ that this was hoodoo – for he had simply _healed_ the wound without drawing energy from anything else, almost like the _privateers_ did – but Zachary was not _trained_ in the way of the privateers –

And even though it was certainly similar to the healing of the privateers (or at least some of them), it was not _identical._

It was _different,_ yes, this green magic – and Andrew certainly could not explain it, therefore being forced to remain just as _baffled_ as before.

Having finally finished his demonstration, Zachary snapped his fingers once, causing the tendrils of these _different_ green flames to vanish as he offered a short bow of his head to Madame Vadima, who stood once again to give a short closing speech about how they were now masters and such, about how their power must be wielded with caution.

They were supposed to be encouraging words, Andrew could tell, perhaps they had been written to be encouraging within Vadima's mind while she watched the final demonstrations – but they seemed to be anything _but,_ with how drained her posture was, with how hoarse her voice seemed to be – she could not even bring herself to make eye contact with any of the now – masters seated before her.

She had dismissed them with a final bow of her own, and they had all filed out one by one – Andrew had made sure to hide himself further in the shrubbery so that he would not be seen – except for Zachary, who had remained within at the silent request of the witchdoctor trainer.

 _Did something go wrong?_

Andrew could not help but feel concerned – as usually, when it came to training sessions, no news was good news. The instructors gave compliments very _rarely,_ and it was wise to learn not to expect them to at any point in time.

However, when he once again leaned towards the entrance to catch exactly _what_ was being said, the hidden musketeer was quite surprised –

"I must commend you, young man – never before have I seen this _particular_ branch of magic within these parts of the Spiral, and yet, you seem to have quite a good grasp upon it…"

"Thank you, Madame – "

Vadima had sighed heavily then, the coins sewn to the many sashes tied around her waist clinking against each other as she turned and began to pace.

"You are so… _similar…_ you do remind me so much of her, now more than ever…"

"Her – I do…?"

 _Dangler._

Considering how powerful she _truly_ had been, it certainly could be considered a rather _high_ honor to be compared to her – and although Andrew had always thought of Zachary as exceptionally talented in hoodoo, he had never _dared_ to compare him – or _any_ witchdoctor, for that matter – to _her._

"You do indeed, you do indeed…she had this…strange magic as well – it was dark magic, yes, almost the… _opposite_ of yours…"

And Vadima had continued to speak as she paced, and her words grew almost _heavy,_ they grew rushed and slurred together, her articulation slowly diminishing, now speaking more to herself than she was to Zachary.

"She would have been so delighted to see you…"

Vadima's voice had grown more frantic by the second, and the volume had increased as well – before long, she was literally _shouting,_ shouting at the walls, the ceiling, Zachary himself, perhaps – anyone, or any _thing,_ that would listen.

"And I can't even remember the last time I _spoke_ to her! My own _daughter,_ she was, I found her with – "

"Thank you, Madame," Zachary had then said hurriedly (of course, this had been completely disregarded by the witchdoctor trainer), and he had lifted his staff from the ground and all but _dashed_ out of the sanctum, directly past Andrew's hiding spot and forcing the musketeer to finally emerge and follow him.

"What was _that_ all about?"

Zachary shrugged –

"I can't really blame her, I guess…she's been in a state of shock ever since they told her – the whole situation was just rather _awkward._ "

Well, Andrew thought, he wasn't _wrong –_ Andrew himself did not exactly perform well in such situations either.

However, perhaps it would be wise to drop the matter now, especially given that they could not gather any more information upon it now that they had left the sanctum –

"So, you're a master now, huh?"

Their conversation had been light as the two of them had walked back in the direction of their house at a rather leisurely pace, with Andrew making comments on the demonstrations that he had witnessed and with Zachary offering his own (slightly more informed) input.

As one would have expected, the atmosphere was much more _relaxed_ as compared to when they had initially walked – or more accurately, _ran –_ to the sanctum, with Andrew having finished his own sessions long ago and Zachary now basking in that rather dizzying relief that was the _absence_ of the pressure of these examinations.

 _Does it feel good, being a master?_

I don't think that anything's _changed,_ Zachary had replied, although I _guess_ I could say so.

And all was well.

They had continued on – and were just passing the docking area when out of the blue, a boy had _torn_ up the stairways from the docks, tripping over his own feet as he staggered forwards, collapsing in the sand, screaming _incomprehensibly_ as a small crowd quickly began to gather –

"What's happened?"

"Look at his _leg,_ he needs help _now -_!"

Exchanging alarmed glances with one another, Andrew and Zachary quickly became one with the crowd, pushing and shoving the other pirates aside in order to get a better view of the fallen boy in the center –

It had been quite difficult to actually be able to see what was going on in the first place, and it was only after several minutes that Andrew had finally been able to shove his way into the innermost ring within the ever – growing sea of people.

He was a swashbuckler, the screaming boy, as he carried seven or eight daggers in his belt alone, and likely had many more hidden within his clothing as well – in the back of his rather vivid memory, Andrew could recall the boy's name – _Brandon Eastwick,_ a swashbuckler of seventeen years of age – but the musketeer's mind had not lingered on this.

Rather, it had been drawn to the _numerous_ bloody wounds that were peeking out from underneath the torn flaps of his clothing – and once again, Andrew had to fight to stay _conscious._

 _What in the Spiral could have caused these – and so many of them…?_

Some of the other pirates standing within the circle surrounding Brandon attempted to reach out to him, placing their hands on his shoulders from where he was curled in on himself upon the ground, trying to lift him up, and the blood – soaked swashbuckler had only responded by _swatting_ them away, by _beating_ them away, his screams a mix of terrified shrieks and jumbled words.

"We just want to _help_ you – "

"Who _did_ this?!"

And still, even as they stood him up, a buccaneer girl and a privateer who appeared to be her brother balancing Brandon's bloody form between them, the terrified swashbuckler's cries remained _incomprehensible,_ with Andrew only able to decipher a few disconnected words amongst his hysterical, terrified screaming –

" _Help – "_

"She's _still - !"_

 _Still what, help from what,_ Andrew had silently urged him on, and as Zachary finally was able to return to his side, having fought through the crowd as well, it had seemed that these answers would not be given, that they would go unknowing and wondering and fearing.

However, it was then that Brandon had started to fight against the two pirates holding him up, and they struggled to keep him from completely twisting out of their grasp altogether as he just _barely_ managed to turn his head back around, only to scream once –

"The _Fife!"_

Andrew's heart had nearly _stopped –_ there was no _way,_ he had told himself, there was no _way_ that what he meant was –

"God help us, the _Grand Fife…!"_

"Wasn't that Underhill's ship?" Zachary cocked a single eyebrow in question, turning his head towards Andrew in anticipation for a response that he never received, as Andrew was _dumbstruck._

 _Sydney Underhill's ship…?!_

And had either of them looked around at the faces of the pirates on either side of them, in front of them and behind them, it would have been blatantly obvious that each and every one of them were thinking the _exact same thing._

 _Underhill's ship._

" _It still sails!"_

Quickly exchanging a series of hushed, panicked words with each other, the privateer and buccaneer supporting Brandon had decided that it would be best to quiet him, yes, before he caused any more of this panic – and they began to drag him away.

" _It still sails, God help us all, the Fife still sails…!"_

"Stop this nonsense, you're hysterical!"

The buccaneer had then yanked the red scarf from around her neck, tying it around Brandon's mouth; his dark brown eyes still wide open with fear even as he was effectively silenced –

But it was far too late now – the full impact of his words had sunken into each and every one of these witnesses, including Andrew and Zachary themselves, and as the crowd had slowly but steadily dissipated, the uneasy air had remained.

"That – "

"That's Underhill's ship…"

The words had fallen from Andrew's mouth numbly, as they had done nothing to sway his disbelief – "But didn't she – "

"Abandon her ship, as well as kill her crew…? That's what I've been told."

A shiver ran down the musketeer's spine, and at this point, he did not even bother to attempt to suppress it – the _thought_ of the Captain of the _Grand Fife,_ who had considered her crewmates to be her sisters, brutally _murdering_ those very same women was _beyond_ horrifying –

It meant that this very same sense of betrayal could be nesting anywhere, in _anyone,_ if it had hidden within _Sydney Underhill_ for so very long, a dormant serpent sleeping within the depths of the mind –

Zachary waved a hand in front of Andrew's face, as he had noticed the stupor that he had fallen into.

And perhaps, by the time that it had taken over and committed such horrible acts of this such nature, the host would not have had the chance to notice –

 _God save us,_ that was what the swashbuckler had said – and perhaps this call to the heavens had been _appropriate_ indeed for this situation.

Zachary reached out and shook Andrew's shoulder harshly, jerking the musketeer back into reality and then being forced to almost _catch_ him as he swayed dangerously, his brown eyes wide with fear, with shock, with disbelief, a mixture of all of them, perhaps, as the witchdoctor now led him through the door of their house and sat him down in the chair directly next to the window – it had been rather fortunate that they had been so close to their house already.

"It's so strange – the Grand Fife was abandoned, but he says he _saw_ it…?"

 _Maybe he really was delusional –_

 _But how – and with all the wounds…!_

His thick brown eyebrows furrowing in thought, the witchdoctor now paced to and fro as Andrew continued to stare on, blankly, as if he was a reanimated corpse rather than a living being.

"And do you know what the _weirdest_ part was, Andrew…?"

Of course, he knew full well that his words were likely going directly over Andrew's head, and they were more for _himself –_ but on the off – chance that he _was_ indeed listening…

"All of those giant cuts on his arms and legs…? They were _bite marks."_

* * *

 **I hope you enjoyed, and be sure to leave a review!**

 **\- Severina**


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8: The Storm**

Ever since he had been taken from the deserted Polarian battlefield, ever since he had been carried back against his will, as he had wanted nothing more than to _die,_ for his own cursed existence to _end,_ Decimus had not seen the light of day.

This would not have been a _problem,_ had his internal timekeeping systems functioned as they should, but like many other aspects and secondary functions within his processor, it had not worked _properly_ for quite some time.

And, therefore, as a result of this, he had no _idea_ how long he had been on this ship.

His consciousness or status of awareness was not quite like that of the humans, who went to sleep in a routine manner at what seemed to be relatively the same hour of every day, and awakening in a set interval of time.

No, he was most certainly _not_ like such, for had he been able to _fall asleep,_ as the mortal beings referred to it, he would have been in that same dormant state every night rather than lying still and silent as the same Polarian scavenger who had saved him tossed about on the box bed beside him, occasionally muttering something in his own strange, native language that Decimus could not _quite_ understand.

Rather, his consciousness was more _spontaneous,_ as much as he did hate it – and Decimus had found that he was constantly drifting in and out of a state of awareness, this awareness being sometimes optimal and sometimes mediocre.

And now, as Decimus gradually began to re – gather scraps of his own coordination and awareness for what did seem like the _millionth_ time, as the energy generated by the gears in his frame was mainly used to heal the massive stab wound, leaving him rather _unable_ to do anything else.

Perhaps it was for the best – as he could not _think_ , and he could not _act,_ and thus, remaining hidden was quite successful.

As much as Decimus did indeed want to run, yes, he wanted to run _forever,_ even though it would serve no purpose –

Yes, his depraved tormentor may have _died_ in her final glance, but his memories of her were still as alive as ever.

 _And the Commodore is dead._

He had very _clearly_ seen her unmoving, terminated frame as she was unburied from the snow, the _same_ Commodore Prima who had saved him from himself – even if it was only temporary.

Finally having gathered enough strength within his limbs to slowly push himself into a sitting position, Decimus tentatively prodded his own bandaged torso, sliding his slender – fingered hand across the area and applying light pressure to the wound in order to better assess the pain –

He had winced _harshly_ the moment that his fingertips had only _brushed_ overtop the wound, yes – but it was not enough to make him _scream_ from it, it was not _quite_ as bad as the last time.

This was most definitely _progress,_ and truly, he knew, it was all thanks to that one Polarian scavenger who had seen him as not an enemy, but a scientific opportunity to discover _how_ the perfect soldiers of the Valencian Armada _functioned._

 _This thought should be accompanied with more panic than this._

After all, such had been the greatest fear of the Armada – the mortal beings getting their hands on their own precious technological advantages, the scientific breakthroughs that were their soldiers.

And by _living,_ Decimus was giving these Polarians that information, _he was allowing them access,_ and perhaps it would have been better if he was indeed terminated on the battlefield, for it would have rid him of these horrid hallucinations as well as this –

However, none of that was _there._

It _should_ have been, he knew, he _should_ be panicking in his position and _attempting_ to destroy himself, for his captor would not simply destroy him – not when his primary motive had been curiosity rather than hatred.

But he was not.

It was rather _ironic –_ within this scenario, the _only_ one in which any soldier of the Armada should have been panicking as he had so _often_ done, Decimus was _not._

Such quite confused him indeed – yet, his processor had been _altered_ by so many factors, by _Dangler_ and by the Commodore and the Supreme Commander himself, and it was rather _useless_ at this point to attempt to process _any_ information as he had been originally built to do.

This fear had forever altered his processor – and there was _nothing_ that Decimus could do about it other than _accepting it._

Yes, the pain had certainly dissipated since his last bout of consciousness, the clockwork marksman was able to conclude – and it would only continue to do so, the wound would only continue to heal, if he did not end up _reopening_ it.

 _Reopening it._

 _It would bleed out, I would be terminated –_

And after all, wasn't that what he had _sought_ when he was initially stabbed, when he had fallen into the snow, his blood draining from him? Had he not thought termination to be a _relief?_

All it would take was for him to unravel the bandages and to pull apart the flesh, which would be _fragile,_ as it had barely begun to form again over the gaping wound – this was _all_ that it would take to end his function, his function which had been _cursed_ by his own impeccable memory.

There no longer was a Commodore Prima to help him to forget.

In his own stupor of fear and terror, Decimus found himself reaching for the knot that kept the bandages in place –

Only to find that as soon as he had touched his hand to it that he could not _proceed further._

 _Suicide._

The mortal creatures were certainly _capable_ of it, but the clockworks were not – not when self – preservation was so _ingrained_ in their supposedly _unbreachable_ programming, and this was indeed _torturous –_

Decimus could remember, as vividly as _ever,_ how relieved he had been when that blade had been driven through his abdomen.

It is over; he had thought, at long last, the death that he would never be able to deliver to himself had been miraculously brought upon him – only for this to be ripped away by the blond Polarian.

 _Saved, and yet tortured._

How ironic it truly was – the remaining logic left within his processor did indeed _thank_ the fates for this, while the rest of him only felt that it condemned him more.

After all, as long as he stood, as long as he _walked,_ she would come for him –

 _Isn't that right?_

But the Polarian had promised him, he remembered, and Decimus could recall his every word, even among the pain that had been _spearing_ through him within that moment.

 _You're safe here._

 _She…cannot - ?_

 _No._

They had been such promising words, almost as what the Supreme Commander had said to him as he had questioned him, promising that she could not find him, that he was safe, that he would come to no more harm –

And then he had ordered for Decimus to be placed in solitary confinement in preparation for experimentation.

 _Is the same to happen now?_

Perhaps, one part of him had answered – after all, the trends are similar –

But yet, the scavenger had _helped_ him, he had saved him from death, which would have been considered an act of grace by any other being or clockwork who was more stable than he, the Polarian had treated his wounds and kept him hidden from the rest of his crew out of fear that they would _not_ be as open to the idea of observing over _killing_ as he had been.

Perhaps, Decimus concluded, he could bring it upon himself to lay some of his uncertainties to rest.

 _Perhaps you can trust,_ a mortal, _emotional, spontaneous being_ would have said.

And he would – for now.

As if on cue, the door to the cabin had then quietly opened, and the same blond – haired, green-grey eyed scavenger slid in, closing the door equally as silently behind him.

" _Decimus?"_

In response, the marksman turned his head towards him – after all, he had been instructed to _not make a single sound,_ and if it was to remain hidden, to remain safe, then he would most certainly do so without hesitation.

The scavenger crossed the small cabin with two short strides, reaching inside the folds of his heavy coat – likely made so to protect him from the biting winds of this world that had brought the Commodore Prima to termination – to retrieve yet _more_ bandages, just as he had done for the last few days (or at least for what Decimus had _assumed_ were days, for he could not _quite_ rely on his own system of internal timekeeping any longer).

 _I'm going to treat your wounds,_ he said again, just as always – as by now, the scavenger had likely figured out that _certainty_ put analytical beings such as Decimus greatly at ease.

Decimus had not replied verbally, as he was to _keep silent –_ rather, he merely moved his dangerously thin arms from where they had been wrapped around his own torso, allowing the scavenger to come forwards and seat himself on the edge of the box bed before he reached out and carefully undid the knot securing the bandages in place.

Even the sensation of the cold air upon the still – gaping wounds, as the scarmetal had just _barely_ begun to form, was _excruciating,_ and Decimus curled his thin hands into fists in order to give himself _something_ to concentrate upon other than this pain as the scavenger once again treated his wounds with the medical alcohol that was kept in the cabin, as to lower the chances of infection (truthfully, it was not known by either of them if such wounds upon Armada clockworks could fester, but it was optimal not to take the chance) before wrapping it again, just as tightly as before.

" _Are you…all right…?"_

 _What a strange question to ask,_ Decimus had thought, for he knew that such could never apply to him – but it had a strangely different meaning to the mortal beings, and so he only nodded.

The pain was still there, yes, and the sting of the alcohol upon his wound was like _fire,_ but he was _alive_ and he was _functioning,_ thus he would answer in the affirmative.

" _Vladimir._ "

The Polarian had then pointed at himself once, and when Decimus had turned his head in slight confusion, he had repeated it again.

" _That is…your name?"_

" _Yes."_

Decimus had broken his own silence, yes, but his voice and words were quiet enough so that it almost seemed like he had spoken at all – and it was not as if any other crewmembers who could possibly be in the outside hallway would be able to hear them over the creaking of the ship, which had seemed to be _strangely_ louder than normal.

Vladimir had taken note of this himself as well, his eyebrows furrowing ever so slightly in concern as he listened to the groaning of the wooden frame of the ship –

It was _deafening._

Storms were common in this world, yes, with its ferocious winds and icy temperatures, and he had the rest of the crew of the _Sapfir_ had sailed through more than he could possibly count, but the sense of panic that arose within him at the mere possibility of such storms had never left him, and likely never would.

 _Lower the sails, secure the cannons –_ Vladimir knew the procedure for storms like the back of his _hand,_ they were so common, but he could not start the preparations until their Captain, Aleks, gave the order.

 _Damn it all._

Even though such preparations would be made regardless if there truly was a dangerous storm, this delay only let his slight panic and anxiety fester within him – he could not _externally_ show it, such would place Decimus into a state of panic as well, as he was already uncertain about enough.

Looking to distract himself, Vladimir's gaze now swept over the frame of the clockwork marksman before him –

Only for his eyes to be drawn _instantly_ to what appeared to be a large grey _scar,_ a _marking_ , a symbol or a _brand_ of sorts, upon the side of Decimus' throat.

Naturally, he did not dare to even _ask_ about it, let alone reach out and brush a hand against it – as Decimus was watching his every move, ever paranoid that the scavenger who seemed to be his _rescuer_ would turn on him at any moment.

Such was a reasonable worry, Vladimir did suppose, given that the Armada had been created to fight the Polarians at the time of the Great War – but that did not answer his question as to _what_ this strange marking was.

He had never seen anything like it in his _life –_ it appeared to be circular, from what Vladimir could see from where he was currently positioned, divided into four equal sects by two curved, intersecting lines, with a smaller circle within each of these quadrants.

It certainly was not the _Armada's_ symbol, Vladimir knew – that was a _cogwheel,_ which was, although circular, most _certainly_ not what was _scarred_ into the marksman's throat.

 _Then what is this the marking of?!_

However, his train of thought was roughly jerked off of its rails just then, for at that exact moment, there was a great blasting noise, and the ship jolted _roughly,_ throwing both of them into the wall that the bed had been built into.

" _What - !"_

Decimus was able to muffle his shout of pain and of what was likely also panic _just_ in time, although he most _certainly_ was not calm any longer –

"It's just a storm – "

 _BANG!_

Vladimir had been quickly proven wrong by the _immense_ clap of thunder that had struck at that very moment, followed by another lurch of the ship, this time in the _opposite_ direction, causing both the scavenger and the marksman to nearly go _flying_ into the opposite wall.

" _Just a storm," you said._

" _Bozhe moy,_ it's never been this bad before…"

Quickly jumping off the bed and to his feet the moment that the ship had righted itself, Vladimir immediately started for the door – it would be _nonsense_ not to give the command to secure the ship now, and regardless of if Aleks had done so, this was _dangerous_ beyond all belief…!

"Stay still, I'll be – "

" _No!"_

The _fear_ in the marksman's cry was enough to send a _chill_ through Vladimir's spine – and he slowly turned around to face him, almost having absorbed some of Decimus' fear _himself._

"Don't be… _worried,_ I'll – "

" _Thirty – two."_

 _What?!_

There was noother _context_ that could possibly help the Polarian to understand what Decimus had truly meant by this, Vladimir realized as the ship was then tossed alarmingly _again_ , and this only served to make it all the more _terrifying,_ for he had spoken it with such fear –

" _Thirty – five."_

"What – Decimus, what are you…?!"

And the ship had lurched yet _again,_ tossing Vladimir forwards and forcing Decimus to fling himself out of the way as they both collided against the opposite wall, now obviously _panicked –_

 _What is this?!_

" _F – Forty-five…!"_

And with a sickening jolt of his stomach, Vladimir _understood –_

 _His numbers are angles –_

Angles of how _far_ the ship had tilted, and they were increasing _alarmingly_ each time as the ship rocked back and forth more and _more_ violently than before, and the few loose objects around the room – Vladimir's weapon, the unused bandages – were now being flung about as much as they were.

" _Fifty-six - !"_

Decimus' words were cut short by the impact as the ship almost seemed to rotate once and back again _entirely_ , and he hit the opposite wall _hard,_ his hands flying to his wound as he seized up in pain, as some area of the wound had most definitely re – opened from this, judging by the slight red that now began to soak the very first layer of bandages –

 _He's a walking leveler,_ Vladimir knew, _all the clockworks are –_ it was how they were able to tell the steepness of the surfaces that they walked or marched on, it was how they assessed battle terrain – and now, it was a steeply increasing indicator of _danger._

" _Fifty – nine, sixty – two, six – Ah - !"_

And they were both thrown _headfirst,_ almost _freefalling_ through the space in the cabin before hitting the other wall yet again, and Vladimir acted _quickly,_ knowing that they would likely be injured or even _die_ from a blow to the head if he did not, gripping the edge of the box bed with one hand as he hoisted both himself and the marksman into it –

They would still be thrown, yes, but it would be a much _shorter_ distance, a distance that ran a lot less risk of injury, and Vladimir could only hope that none of his shipmates had been on deck, that they were all able to get into some secure location, for the impacts alone - !

" _Seventy – three…"_

Decimus' voice had quieted considerably – but it was _not_ due to the lack of panic, if anything, it was the direct _opposite –_

Because it had become so muffled with _fear,_ the Polarian noticed as they braced themselves against each other, against the wall, the screams of one of the other crewmembers audible in another room, another cabin, screams of terror, screams of pain.

Vladimir had heard of casualties at sea that were caused in this manner, yet he had never witnessed one – and he _prayed_ that this would not be the day that he would.

 _What will happen to us,_ Decimus wanted to shout, to plead, _will this continue to increase forever…?!_

His wordless gaze said it all, the way his frame was frozen in terror as he struggled to brace himself as well among the haze of panic and pain –

" _EIGHTY – five –"_

" _Look out!"_

Vladimir had just _barely_ managed to pull Decimus' thin frame to him as they were _propelled_ across the room by the force of the jolt, and he could not _help_ but shout in pain as his shoulder blades connected _painfully_ against the wall, and he could only thank the fates that it had not been Decimus that had taken the impact –

He would have _surely_ been terminated on spot, he knew, with this force –

And they would have achieved _nothing,_ no _knowledge_ would be gained of how these intricate machines that had brought the world of Polaris to ruins _worked._

Luckily, this had not _been_ the case, but the numbers had continued to increase, yes, by Decimus, eighty – seven, eighty-nine, and Vladimir could not _hear_ when he had reached ninety, for he was praying in his native language to the God that had been so _cruel_ to send them this storm, he was praying for deliverance from this chaos, to save the lives of his shipmates, his captain, himself, for his soul and those of all others on board –

" _VLADIMIR!"_

The marksman's _scream_ of _terror_ had frightened him more than _any_ of the jolts – and for good _reason,_ as a great rumbling had now began underneath the ship, flinging them and every object within the ship to and fro as if some gargantuan being had picked the _Sapfir_ up and shook her –

 _God help us, God save us –_

" _One hundred and eighty!"_

They hit the ceiling and all went black.

* * *

 **I hope you enjoyed, and do be sure to leave a review!**

 **\- Severina**


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9: Prima's Plan**

Within her quarters, standing directly in front of the mirror that hung on the leftmost wall, the Commodore Prima Militus – or rather, _Commander_ Prima Militus, as she had been newly named – traced her gloved fingertips over the spider – crack scars on the right side of her face.

Even already, it had seemed so long ago that they had been placed there – and it likely _had_ been long ago, as she and the Captain Servus Albus had been under the captivity of Hunter Chamberlain and his _depraved_ lover for over _two years_ , according to Deacon, the spymaster of the Armada.

And although initially, she had concluded that perhaps the fates had been too _harsh_ upon Hunter Chamberlain in forcing him to watch the love of his life slowly rot away, day by day, the Supreme Commander was then reminded of how being in his captivity had _prevented_ her and her Captain from returning to Valencia in time to stop the attack –

Not to mention that it had also removed Albus' counterpart, Servus Carbo, _from_ Valencia, which would have made the former Supreme Commander Kane _that much more vulnerable_ to the attack.

Perhaps it was accurate to say that Hunter Chamberlain had effectively _caused_ the downfall of the Lord Kane, the clockwork that Prima had been built to serve and fight for –

And this was _unforgivable._

The long, golden – black trail of her coat billowing behind her, Prima turned swiftly upon her heel and left her office, the two marines that had been guarding either side of the door up until the current moment now moving to flank her, halberds raised and at the ready as she strode through the hallways, heading directly for the war room.

It was as if her new position had _hardened_ her even more, if that truly had been possible -

The almost _dangerously_ high heels on her boots allowed her to stand taller, taller than ever before, and unlike how she had done as a Commodore, Prima no longer tied her white hair back, allowing it to flow unrestricted down her shoulders and back, the high, fan – like collar of her jacket _pronouncing_ her scarred face as a frame would to a portrait.

A Commodore no longer, a soldier no longer –

She, the _Supreme Commander,_ the _Lord,_ wielded _absolute_ power.

As she had traversed through the many winding hallways within the fortress of Cadiz, the clockworks patrolling had stopped in their tracks to salute her – more forcibly than _ever,_ and most _always_ with a shout of _hail, Lord Prima._

And although Prima had merely given nods of her head towards her soldiers, as she continued to march on with what was perhaps the equivalent of _pride._

These soldiers, yes, _her_ soldiers, they were indeed so _perfect –_ and she would _lead_ them just as perfectly, she would carry on what the Lord Kane had begun with the _utmost_ intensity, never tiring, never sleeping, and never _stopping –_

Just as she had been built to do.

Turning right once more, Prima continued forwards until she came to a large set of double doors, a pair of marines standing outside for security –

And for good reason as well, for this was the _war room –_ the chamber in which all of the Armada's crucial battle plans were made, in which their master strategies and brutal _cleansing methods_ were developed.

The rest of Kane's elite court was awaiting her, their new Supreme Commander, their _Mother,_ she had considered herself.

For just as a mortal mother would give her life and health for her own children, she would give her function and every ounce of energy within her to ensure the success, the glory, the _victory_ of her forces, _her_ children _,_ the clockwork Armada of Valencia.

As she had approached, the two guards standing on either side of the door had saluted her once before turning and pushing open the massive double doors, revealing the enormous circular table in the very center of the room, which had been made to picture a map of the spiral, the clockworks of the elite court seated around it.

Of course, they had not remained seated for very long – upon her entrance, every single one of them had risen and saluted her –

 _Supreme Commander,_ they had acknowledged her, and she had never felt more proud.

Saluting them as well, Prima took a seat at the throne – like chair directly in front of her, scanning over the clockworks of the elite court –

They had all been built within months of each other, yes – Rooke, the General of the Armada, and Deacon, the Spymaster – as well as Bishop and Phule and the female clockwork that Kane had considered his _queen._

Had the Armada been structured as a mortal monarchy had, _this_ clockwork would have taken on the command – but such was not so, for they needed a _military_ leader, yes, and thus, Prima' regime had begun.

"I have been imprisoned by Hunter Chamberlain and Dangler of the Resistance for two years, I have been told."

Deacon, who had told her this, was also the one to confirm –

"That is correct."

"And as protocol demands – " It was now Bishop who spoke – "A report will need to be filed."

"Indeed."

Now turning towards Bishop, Prima's gaze almost seemed to _cut_ through him as he began to go down the list of questions – which was quite _extensive,_ given that she and her subordinate had managed to escape a _sponsor_ of the Resistance and one of the most dangerous human women in the Armada's records.

"It is to my understanding that you were under the primary captivity of Hunter Chamberlain, while the Captain was under the primary captivity of… _Dangler._ "

"You are correct."

"Supreme Commander, had you been able to _see_ Dangler?"

She had indeed – _once,_ when Dangler had steered Albus in, her grip on his shoulders being the only force holding him upright, for she had _tortured_ him so, she had _confused_ him so that he could not even _respond,_ he could not even utter those same words that all clockworks were _made_ to –

 _For the glory of the Armada –_

And Dangler had _ripped_ that much certainty away from him.

"Affirmative."

Prima could only be thankful that Albus was a Captain, and therefore, had a _much_ more advanced processor – otherwise, it was more than likely that he would have ended up in a similar state as Dangler's _first_ clockwork victim.

"Describe this woman's physical appearance."

And although Prima did indeed _know_ why this question was more vital than ever, for their records had not quite been _updated_ ever since Decimus had described her then- _beautiful_ appearance after his retrieval so many years ago, this did not make recalling the memory any less trying.

Yes, Prima remembered her – she likely did not even weigh _ninety_ pounds, and although Dangler likely only stood at 5'10" as compared to Prima, who was _exactly_ six feet, Dangler was a _human,_ and therefore, it was considered to be a _dangerously_ low weight.

"Dangler is a tall woman, perhaps about five-foot-ten, and she is underweight to the point of emaciation."

And even though Prima's speech had been even, even though her words had sounded so _controlled,_ even to her own ears, _nothing_ had diminished the _eerie_ air that seemed to float about _her_ face, her gaunt, skeletal face, her milky, clouded eyes almost seeming to _glow_ even in memory.

" _Emaciation…?"_

"It was possible for the outline of her cheekbones and eye-sockets to be seen through her flesh, as well as her ribs through her dress."

Bishop had almost seemed to freeze up at this – for even though he had heard this already, once, from _Presidos Decimus_ when he had been brought in before the Lord Kane himself after she had last _looked_ at him, but the _detail_ that the _Supreme Commander_ had provided in her own description had painted a _much_ more vivid image within his processor.

"Commander, you are certain…that she was not infected with a… _disease_ of sorts…?"

"Perhaps not of the _physical_ sort, no, High Mage – "

With an obsession that had been strengthened to such a degree as it was within Dangler, her rapid loss of weight, as life-threatening as it was, was only a _side_ effect.

A side effect to the deterioration of her sanity, of her _mind._

" – but she was _severely_ ill, indeed."

"… _understood, Supreme Commander."_

And with that, the High Mage of the Armada yanked himself out of his stupor and written this information down upon the sheets of parchment upon the table before him, word-for-word from the _Lord Prima_ herself.

"And the male… _Chamberlain,_ his name was…had he been in the same state of instability?"

 _Not particularly._

"Negative, High Mage. He was in a state of _grief,_ while she was consumed by an _obsession._ "

As she spoke, Prima carefully glanced around the table at each of the elites, watching for movement, for the tensing of their limbs and joints –

For although she did _understand_ what little _reasoning_ there was behind these sorts of human emotions, they did _not –_ and such uncertain maters were extremely _foreign_ to them.

Clockworks, even such advanced clockworks as these, did not function _well_ with this sort of material.

"But he _had_ been the one to…give you the scars upon your face, Commander?"

"Affirmative."

Such was peculiar, Prima noted, how Bishop had almost seemed to ask this question with _caution,_ as if in fear that the mere recollection of it would cause them to re-open all over again, when such would _never_ happen –

It was a mere memory by now, a mere memory from that dreadful time that truly _was_ two years ago, much to Prima's own shock, and she felt the pain of it no longer.

However, Bishop had not asked of _that –_ and so she did not say anything further.

"I do not believe that you know of this, Commander – but the Captain Servus Carbo was sent by the Lord Kane, along with the soldiers of the Black Cadre, to retrieve both you and Captain Servus Albus. However, when they had arrived at the manor, they had found no – "

"We had managed to escape before this, then."

" _Escape…?"_

"Affirmative."

"How exactly did this occur?"

And so Prima had told him _everything_ that she had remembered from that one night – how Albus had stumbled into her chamber with his uniform undone and blood coating his skin, but with the _keys_ clenched in his fist, how he had freed her before she had led the way out of the manor and to the docks, how they had hidden in the cargo hold of the supply ship that was destined for Polaris, only to single – handedly slaughter the entire crew upon their arrival before Prima had dragged them through _endless_ miles of snow and into that _cave._

The cave of the ice sculptor – which was where she had again been found, at that time presumed terminated.

After she had spoken the last sentence of this re-telling, Prima had expected Bishop to be frantically writing, as he had done the last time – but rather, he had merey looked down upon the parchment before nodding once.

"Your recollection matches that of the Captain Albus, as expected."

And therefore, it truly _was_ what had happened.

With this report now taken care of, Prima knew, it would be time to move on to the _next_ issue that they had planned to address – or rather, update her upon.

"I have also been told that there was an _attack_ launched upon the Supreme Commander in my absence – and that this was what had incapacitated him."

It was what had incapacitated him _and_ pushed her into his position as soon as she had moved again, yes.

And _there_ it was – the uneasy shifting of the elite clockworks in their seats as they glanced subtly across the room at each other. Such was only _natural,_ as they had all lost a Commander and Lord – but the mere fact that the remembrance of such had caused them to _externally_ react only amplified how much of an impact this had had upon them.

"Your words are correct, Supreme Commander."

Naturally, it was Deacon who had answered – for of all the clockwork elites save for perhaps the Lord Kane himself, he had the _fastest_ processor, allowing him to _recover_ from this shock much more quickly than the others.

"Who were the attackers?"

Deacon did not require a sheet of parchment to look down upon to answer this question, he had _memorized_ their names –

"The three pirates identified were the privateer Sydney Underhill, and her two-person crew: the buccaneer Samantha Hawkins and the swashbuckler Jewel Zabra."

 _He had been incapacitated by three pirates alone…?!_

And there was also the question of _how_ they had managed to get past the security at the gates –

" _In addition – "_

Prima's head quickly snapped towards Deacon –

"We have also identified a clockwork who had aided them – in fact, he _also_ seemed to be under the command of _Sydney Underhill._ "

"What is his name?"

" _Custos Quintus,_ Commander."

And as much as Prima did _remember_ the name, she could not remember anything specific associated with him – until Deacon had spoken again.

"He had been reported _missing_ from the Tunnels Squadron a _day_ after you had departed for Skull Island with Captain Albus, Commander."

 _Missing._

Not terminated – _missing._

"He was a…. _rogue_ clockwork…?!"

"It does appear so, Commander."

 _A rogue clockwork, a traitor clockwork._

Had Prima possessed a human heart, it would have began to _thunder_ out of her chest in that very moment.

" _How…?! How_ had this pirate done so…?!"

"We have yet to _find_ this out, Supreme Commander – however, he has been listed as a target for capture."

"Good – I want him in _function,_ it is vital to discover how she had managed to _alter_ his allegiance."

"Duly noted, _my Lord."_

It was truly a _miracle_ that Prima's speech had still remained even, that her voice had not started to tremble quite yet – to think that three _pirates_ had been able to _defeat_ and _incapacitate_ their _Supreme Commander…_

"How had they managed this?"

"With disguises, Commander – the privateer and buccaneer had disguised themselves as marines, pretending to drag the swashbuckler between them as their prisoner while their _rogue clockwork_ obtained explosives from the laboratory that he had later used to bombard the throne room."

And it quickly became clear to Prima –

They had only been able to achieve this because of _that one clockwork._

 _Custos Quintus._

Prima had found herself standing then, this new sense of _alert_ surging through her entire frame as she spoke again, her words more _harsh_ than ever before –

"The Resistance branch within the pirate haven – _Skull Island –_ has grown _far_ too strong to be overlooked _any longer."_

Although she had not said anything _further,_ it was almost _impossible_ to miss what she had been implying – and the General Rooke had noticed more than any other, for he was _programmed_ to think _primarily_ in terms of battle, in terms of brute force and immediate destruction.

"How will this situation be _dealt_ with, Commander?"

Had Prima been human, her eyes would have narrowed _dangerously_ as her pale, gloved hand curled into a tight fist.

"We will finish what I had been sent to that island to do – _destroy_ the Resistance branch, and take the land as one of our colonies – the current population of Skull Island may be _despicable,_ but the land itself contains resources that would most certainly be _useful,_ and I do not intend to let them go to _waste._ "

" _Understood, Commander."_

Again, they had replied in perfect unison, such that it would have sent _chills_ down Prima's spine, had she been a _mortal, imperfect_ being rather than a clockwork.

"We will not take _any_ risks this time," Prima had continued, the volume of her voice slowly escalating as she rose to her full height, clasping her thin – fingered hands behind her back as she began to pace, the long train of her heavily – brocaded coat trailing behind her in an almost _malevolent_ manner, almost like one of those feared female monarchs from the storybooks of the native Valencian fables –

"We will send twice as many marines as we do musketeers, snipers, marksmen, and fusiliers, and of those, we shall send as many as are necessary to _burn_ every structure upon the island to the ground."

Such would perhaps be necessary.

In addition, we will also bring several squadrons of dragoons and battle angels."

She paused before turning on her almost _lethally_ high heel to once again face _her_ elite court.

"This is to be a _full_ takeover – upon the downfall of the head of the Resistance branch, the pirate Captain _Horace Avery,_ a stronghold – or a _fortress,_ if you will – shall be established."

Prima had nodded then to conclude her own speech – now opening up the floor to any other _suggestions_ from the elites, as after all, they were more _specialized_ in certain aspects of conquest while she was what the humans would have called a "jack of all trades."

"Supreme Commander – "

"Spymaster," Prima had acknowledged Deacon with a single nod of her head, allowing him to continue –

"As you likely already know, Commander, even _if_ Horace Avery is killed, this will not necessarily silence the Resistance – there are a great number of them, and it is certain that some of them will go into hiding or manage to flee from the island."

She had known this indeed, even though up until now, it had remained hidden, in the very back of her processor.

"Indeed so – "

After all, a rule with an iron fist was always met with _some_ degree of pushback.

"And therefore, we will make an _example_ out of those that we _do_ catch doing so."

Out of all emotions, the humans were most _easily_ influenced by fear – something that the clockworks of the Armada were quite capable of bestowing.

"General Rooke – how long will it take to ready the necessary forces and supplies?"

The massive clockwork _brute_ had replied with what was perhaps a very _diluted_ version of the human emotion of _eagerness –_

"A week and three days, Commander, if all proceeds optimally."

"Excellent – I will oversee this colonization _myself,_ and therefore I expect all preparations to be made _perfectly._ "

"As you command."

There was no hiding what almost seemed to be _anticipation_ within the Armada General's voice, and Prima was almost _certain_ that if any of the other elites had spoken, they would have displayed the very same.

She could not _blame_ them – after all, the eradication of the pirates, of the _humans,_ had _always_ been a goal of the Armada from the _very_ beginning.

It was then that Bishop, the High Mage, had spoken again for the first time since he had written the report.

"Commander…you _do_ realize that this plan will result in the _genocide_ of the human race…? There are humans elsewhere in the spiral, but a great majority reside within Skull Island – "

"I do indeed, High Mage."

"And you are… _prepared,_ Supreme Commander…? The humans have existed within the Spiral for years, and they have had a rather large influence in the events of history…"

 _That is true –_

But they were _parasites_ , yes, Prima had reminded herself – and if they were not eliminated _at once_ , they would smother the clockwork Armada, they would only _hinder_ the Grand Design.

And therefore, in her final reply, Prima's jaw _clenched_ in determination, and perhaps in hidden _rage_ as well - and she slammed her fist upon the table in the center of the chamber, causing quite a _few_ of the elite clockworks to twitch -

" _So be it."_

* * *

 **I hope you enjoyed, and be sure to leave a review!**

 **\- Severina**


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10: The _Fife_ and the Fleet**

It had already been more than two weeks since _that_ incident – since the swashbuckler, Brandon Eastwick, had stumbled up from the docks, scared and wounded and shaken and screaming bloody murder that the _Fife still sails, God help us._

Even now, his words seemed to still ring in the air over Andrew's head, although he could not tell if the same applied to Zachary – and it never had failed to send a shiver down his spine.

Two _weeks,_ and they still had not managed to gather _any_ other information about the _Grand Fife,_ the ship that the swashbuckler had screamed the name of _over_ and _over_ again, other than the fact that it was a large, black Skull Island galleon bearing a crossed sword and hatchet that had been Captained by the privateer Sydney Underhill –

That was, when it had last been _seen._

 _She abandoned her ship,_ Zachary had said – and that was indeed _unspeakable_ behavior for a Captain, which did make it all the more _peculiar._

But Zachary had not been there _himself,_ of course – he had come to know this through Madame Vadima, who had gained her knowledge through _Hunter Chamberlain,_ who had allegedly _watched_ as Dangler was stabbed and _killed_ by the very same Captain of this abandoned ship.

 _Abandoned._

 _Then how does the Fife still sail?_

This question had remained unanswered ever since it had first been imposed upon them after Brandon had been dragged away, and Andrew was _determined_ to find the answer. Luckily for him, Zachary was just as willing to hunt for any information, and he had agreed to lead the musketeer to the Chamberlain manor.

Initially, Andrew had nearly jumped up in excitement – this was far _better_ than he could ever hope for, being directed to the exact source of information, and a _witness_ to the apparent _hysteria_ of Sydney Underhill, no less, but it soon had become obvious to him that there was a rather large _hole_ in this plan.

"Will he even _agree_ to speak with us…?"

As of now, they had nearly walked half of the distance, and the musketeer had to struggle once more to keep his breathing even, as he most definitely did not wish to appear _weak_ in front of anyone, _especially_ Zachary, who would likely never let him forget it – but he had somehow still managed to speak _coherently._

"I don't really know for sure," Zachary had replied, his golden eyes darting to and fro in a very subtle sort of unease, "The last time I saw him was a week before my demonstration."

" _And…?"_

"And he was a complete _wreck._ I couldn't see his face much because he had turned away, probably to tell Madame Vadima _everything_ without us overhearing – but he was _definitely_ crying, and his coat kind of hung off his body, like he'd lost a lot of weight or something."

Much to Andrew's own dismay, this did absolutely _nothing_ to dampen the nervousness that was rising within him more and more by the second.

"You didn't see him again after that?"

"Nope. He kind of ran back to his manor – "

At this, Zachary had pointed upwards towards the _colossal_ house that sat upon the hill that the two pirates were currently climbing up, although they did indeed have a long way to go –

"And he hasn't shown his face since."

It was _certain –_ Andrew's hope was plummeting at an _alarming_ rate, for now that Hunter Chamberlain's mental state had been taken into account, the chances that the Resistance sponsor would actually _yield_ any information about the _Grand Fife_ or her Captain were _extremely_ slim, if not nonexistent altogether.

"He's secluded himself for _three weeks…?"_

"Yup – and it doesn't seem like he's about to _stop_ anytime soon."

But there was still a _chance_ indeed.

The two of them had climbed the rest of the way up the hill in silence, only stopping for a very brief moment to catch their breath, walking through the massive garden that led up to the manor before arriving at the very front door.

Sensing that Andrew's nervousness, Zachary stepped forwards in a rather sudden streak of bravery, pressing his ear to the front door and remaining still for a few brief seconds and deciding that he had heard nothing of value before standing upright again and knocking, five or six times in a row, and rather _loudly_ as well.

For several minutes, there had been no signs of movement behind it – and they had been about to turn back, having given up on their short – lived quest for information when several loud _clicks_ in rapid succession could be heard.

 _Someone_ – presumably Hunter, _hopefully_ Hunter – was undoing what sounded like at least _sixty_ bolt locks upon the door before it was pushed open _ever_ so slightly, just enough to reveal no more than the shadowed outline of a man's figure and face, as it was almost _completely_ dark within the manor.

Pushing Andrew aside, Zachary stepped forwards once more, intent clear in his cat – like eyes.

"Hunter?"

Silence.

"I know you…"

He had barely _whispered_ the words, but the brown – haired witchdoctor had heard him nevertheless.

With a loud creak, the door was now pushed open _all_ the way, the sunlight now falling upon and revealing the figure of none other than Hunter Chamberlain, just as they had predicted.

And even Zachary could not stop his own eyes from widening at the _terrible_ state that the man was in.

Hunter was _tired –_ in _all_ ways, in _all_ aspects, for his brown eyes were red and swollen and sunken, speaking of too many hours spent grieving and not enough spent sleeping – and his clothing appeared to be almost an entire size too large from him, hanging off of his shoulders, his long brown hair untied and in a state of entanglement that could have possibly rivaled that of a tumbleweed.

However, although the sadness, the _loss_ , and the complete _despair_ of one whose world had been yanked out from underneath him, there was recognition –

"You were in – "

"The master sessions, yeah."

Zachary had replied almost a bit _too_ energetically, and Andrew had tugged once on his sleeve from behind his back in an attempt to _notify_ him of this, but the witchdoctor had merely brushed him off, never once breaking concentration on the obviously distraught man.

Hunter had not said anything further, only nodding once to himself in confirmation as he leaned weakly against the doorframe, _shaking_ slightly from the effort –

And it became clear that he had not _eaten_ either – perhaps sparsely, if at _all._

As he lowered his head, the heavy sigh that escaped his throat more _visible_ rather than audible by the slight heave of his chest, it suddenly became clear how _gaunt_ and _thin_ his face had truly become, his cheekbones all but spearing through his skin, giving him an almost _skull –_ like appearance which was rather frightening, to say the very least –

Thus reminding Zachary why they were _here._

After all, he had witnessed Dangler's _death –_ as well as the _madness_ of Sydney Underhill.

"Have you heard…?"

Hunter's head snapped up, although weakly, as if he was extremely dizzy or disoriented (both of which were rather likely).

" _Heard…?"_

His eyebrows had risen in slight mirth, although he was to _exhausted_ to laugh – of _course_ he had not heard anything, having been locked away for three and a half weeks – and much to his own _shame,_ Zachary now realized this as well.

"Oh – _no,_ of course…but they found a swashbuckler about two weeks ago, and he'd been bitten at least thirty times."

" _Bitten?"_

Hunter's replies were short – one, perhaps _two_ words at the very most, his voice hoarse and sore and strained, and it spoke of naught but pure _suffering._

However, amongst this, it was indeed possible to tell that he was not merely _brushing_ them off – Hunter was indeed listening, and all the while, he seemed to be growing more and more _uneasy_ by the second –

"Yeah – we thought that he'd been attacked by a pack of cutthroats or something, but then he said – "

And he paused, looking up expectantly at Hunter, almost _nervous_ to continue – and realizing this, the older witchdoctor straightened up, his eyes now fully open and trained upon Zachary even though he still did look _ever_ as tired and as corpse-like as before.

 _What,_ he was silently asking, _what did he say, go on!_

"He said that…the _Fife_ still sailed."

Hunter blinked twice, shaking his head ever so slightly as if trying to _clear_ the dizziness from his head.

"He _what?!"_ And he straightened himself even further, now letting go of the door to stumble back slightly, his gaunt face having turned _slightly_ more ashen -

"We're not sure what he meant, really – he was terrified, and more or less _hysterical,"_ Zachary went on, "But he was _screaming_ it over and over again – the _Grand Fife –_ and we – Andrew and I – were really confused."

However _innocent_ Zachary had attempted to make their inquiry seem, even though it mostly truly was pure curiosity, by the time that the witchdoctor had _realized_ the impact that even _mentioning_ the name of the ship had had upon Hunter, it was _far_ too late –

His eyes were now wide in terror, and any color that had managed to miraculously _remain_ in his face had now drained as he staggered backwards, shaking his head –

" _No, no, no, it can't be, it can't be…!"_

 _Dammit, Zachary,_ Andrew wanted to say, _I knew this wouldn't work, look at him - !_

And yet, even given how _fragile_ this entire situation was already, Zachary only continued to make it _worse,_ quickly stepping forward so that he was practically _leaning_ into the doorway of the manor, waving his hands in what was most definitely a _failed_ attempt to calm Hunter down.

"No – _no,_ I didn't mean - ! You _know_ something about the _Fife,_ right? I mean, you _saw it - !"_

" _LEAVE me!"_

Andrew had barely managed to pull Zachary back in time before Hunter had _slammed_ the doors shut, the edge of one of them just barely clipping the end of the witchdoctor's nose.

"That went well, I suppose."

"You _idiot!"_ Andrew all but _screeched,_ practically _tearing_ at his own hair in frustration – "Of _course_ he reacted like that, I _told_ you - !"

"We had to at least _try!"_

Pinching the bridge of his nose, the musketeer sighed heavily – and amidst the newly – formed silence that had fallen over them both, they could still _hear_ Hunter, very _faintly._

And he was _definitely_ sobbing.

He was _crying,_ he was crying and saying _something_ that Andrew could not _quite_ understand, no matter how hard he attempted to listen, and the musketeer was indeed grateful when Zachary shoved him once, snapping him out of his stupor as he followed the witchdoctor back down the hill.

"That's the end of it, then – " Zachary said, tangling his fingers in his already _horribly_ knotted hair and ruffling it further, as if he wished to _preserve_ these tangles. "I can't really think of anyone _else_ that would actually _know_ anything about the _Fife."_

"Then what about _Brandon?"_

The witchdoctor stopped in his tracks, slowly turning around to face Andrew.

"Now _you're_ the one who's crazy."

"I – "

"I don't even think he'll be able to _walk_ for at least another two _weeks!_ Did you see the size of his wounds?!"

"He doesn't need to walk to _talk,_ Zachary."

In the end, it had not taken much _time_ to convince the witchdoctor to go along with his rather _spontaneous_ plan of sneaking into the infirmary through the side window via short – distance teleportation, as to not alert any of the nurses that could possibly be inside.

Luckily, their second source of information – one who was a more recent _witness_ to this supposedly abandoned ship – was in plain sight.

Brandon was currently asleep, or so it seemed, upon the table against the rightmost wall of the infirmary, fresh bandages wrapped around his torso, his limbs, blood already having soaked through some of the areas.

However, as they soon discovered, he was not a _heavy_ sleeper at _all –_ for as soon as the musketeer and witchdoctor had gotten within _ten feet_ of him, he had sat _bolt_ upright, and likely would have _screamed_ if Zachary had not darted forwards and clamped a hand over his mouth to silence him as Andrew raised his hands in a gesture of surrender.

"We're not going to hurt you, I promise," The musketeer whispered, nervously glancing over his shoulder several times to ensure that they were not being _watched –_ "we just wanted to make sure you were okay."

Slowly, Brandon appeared to relax, and in time, Zachary dropped his hand to let him whisper his answer.

"I…well…my wounds are healing…"

"That's good to know." Andrew smiled slightly, although it was more of a twitch of the corners of his mouth than anything else. He perched himself on the edge of the table, trying to make his own image as _least_ intimidating as possible – not that there was a lot of _work_ to be done in that area. "They took good care of you, the nurses?"

The swashbuckler nodded once.

"They said I'd be able to start training again in a couple of weeks, if all the stitches work the way they should."

 _He's at ease now,_ Andrew noticed, _good –_ it would make it much _easier_ to steer this conversation in their intended direction.

"Yeah, that'll be one heck of a story to tell the rookies – " Zachary grinned, now pointing at one of the larger bandaged segments of his arm, "How you escaped like that."

"Never thought I would," Brandon chuckled weakly in reply, "I thought I was done for sure."

The light in his eyes had almost seemed to dim slightly at these words, and both Andrew and Zachary knew that they had to ask _fast._

"It was… _that_ scary…? We thought the _Fife_ was abandoned – "

And with a single movement, the swashbuckler had reached out and grabbed onto Andrew's collar, jerking him forwards and staring directly at him with wide, terrified eyes.

" _It's not._ "

"Not – "

"Not abandoned. It still sails."

His words were becoming more frantic now, faster and _louder_ as he shook his head as if he was _attempting_ to shove the memories of this _abandoned_ ship out of his mind but was instead _failing_ miserably to do so.

"No, but we want to – "

"It still sails. It still sails…! God HELP us, it still - !"

It was then that one of the doors was thrown open to reveal an extremely _riled_ nurse, a brown – haired woman who was likely in her late forties.

"What in the _Spiral_ is – _you_ two! What are you _doing_ here, he's not able to receive visitors!"

"Sorry, ma'am, we just – " Zachary had spluttered quickly in protest -

" _Out!_ He needs _rest!_ "

And neither of the two could do _anything_ further as the rather heavyset nurse shoved them _roughly_ out of the front door to the infirmary, slamming it shut behind them with a loud _bang!_

"That went _well,"_ Andrew snipped, rolling his eyes as he brushed himself off while Zachary ran a hand through his tangled, spiked hair as if trying to _worsen_ its condition.

"It was _your_ idea to talk to Brandon – "

"And it was _yours_ to talk to Hunter!"

The musketeer sighed in annoyance – by now, it had grown dark, and many of the residents of the Island were likely asleep or within their houses.

"This whole thing was a _mess._ "

And it was indeed true – they had found out _nothing_ new whatsoever in regards to the _Grand Fife,_ let alone about her _Captain._

They had continued walking along the very edges of the island until they had reached one of the more _jagged_ cliffs – such that other pirates rarely ventured onto it.

 _Good._

Not only was it along their way back to the building that they owned, it also provided a _wonderful_ view of the skyway to the back of the island, which seemed to be overlooked quite often.

And it truly was a _pity,_ Andrew thought _–_ for tonight _specifically,_ the stars seemed to be clearer and more numerous than ever, especially since they remained so _unobstructed_ by the ships that seemed to crowd the front of the island –

" _Wait."_

Zachary had almost _hissed_ the word, and this alone sent a chill up Andrew's spine – for the witchdoctor was not one to be easily placed into such a _tense_ state as he was now, almost like a cat with its hackles raised.

"What is it?"

Andrew had almost _dared_ not to reply, his whisper only _barely_ able to be heard before Zachary had snapped his fingers at him once –

"Give me your telescope – I can _hear_ something."

Smothering the slight bit of dread that had began to work its way into his stomach, the musketeer quickly fumbled to retrieve the miniature, hand-made spyglass from its designated loop upon his belt, only for Zachary to snatch it out of his hands immediately.

Placing the spyglass to his right eye, Zachary seemed to scan over the skyways before them, searching for the _source_ of whatever sound he had heard – as he had always had _very_ sharp hearing as compared to Andrew – before he completely _paled_ in horror, nearly dropping the spyglass as his eyes grew _wide_ with fright.

"Zachary…?"

The witchdoctor only shook his head in obvious _terror, shoving_ the spyglass into Andrew's hands as he gestured wildly to a single region of what did appear to be complete and total _darkness_ to the musketeer – that was, until he looked in upon it through the lenses of the miniature telescope –

Only to see _exactly_ what had made the witchdoctor _tremble_ in such shock and _fright._

Armada ships.

 _Hundreds_ of them – clustered together as _tightly_ as was possible, much like a swarm of hornets, insects of gold – plated hulls and black turbine sails – each of them with their cannons ready and armed, each of them carrying at _least_ fifty clockwork soldiers.

Andrew dropped the spyglass.

"Oh, _no."_

* * *

 **I hope you enjoyed, and do be sure to leave a review!**

 **\- Severina**


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11: The Battle of Skull Island**

The Supreme Commander of the clockwork Armada – Prima Militus herself – stood at the helm of the flagship of her fleet, the _Decimator –_ with each and every soldier aboard the numerous ships behind looking to _her_ for orders, looking to _her_ for their next command.

At last, _at last,_ she would _give_ it to them, _this_ command –

The same one that she had been given before her capture, before the fall of the Lord Kane himself.

Prima now looked upon the island, blanketed by darkness save for a few scattered specks of light – likely the lanterns that the pirates placed in their windows or by their doorways.

How _peaceful_ it looked – almost how the once – populous civilian areas of Valencia seemed in her earlier years of function.

Most of them had not harmed a single clockwork, yes, that was indeed true – and most of them had no _true_ reason to fight against the clockwork Armada, they held no real hatred – it had merely been pounded into their brains from _so early on_ that the clockwork Armada was a force of _evil._

And therein laid the problem.

Being a clockwork, Prima would know better than ever of how something so _strongly_ engrained in one's process of thought was _irreversible._

Most of them are innocent.

But _all_ of them were _imperfect_ –

 _Imperfect_ beings standing in the way of the Grand Design.

That was simply that.

Unsheathing her ornate, decorated sword, the Supreme Commander thrust it forwards, pointing the tip directly towards the sleeping island.

" _Obliterate the pirate haven!"_

And with a mighty groan, the _Decimator_ surged forwards along with its enormous fleet, each ship's cannons at the ready and their clockwork crews on alert.

As they neared the island, some of the pirate scouts had _noticed_ them, no doubt – but it would be of no hindrance to _her_ plan.

" _Fire!"_

And Skull Island was _bombarded_ by cannons, by catapults, setting roofs and buildings aflame as the air became _filled_ with the smoke of the growing inferno and the screams of the wounded and dying –

Perhaps Prima would have _smiled_ if emotions had been more embedded into her programming – they had not even set _foot_ upon the island yet - and so everything was going _according to plan._

Glancing backwards, the Supreme Commander's gaze lingered once upon the two ships flanking the _Decimator –_ the ships carrying the Black and White Cadres, the two specialized squadrons.

The last time she had been here, it had been an _enormous_ failure – it had been the _reason_ that the Lord Kane had been incapacitated, rendered as good as terminated; it had been the _reason_ that everything had been _plunged_ into complete chaos.

 _This_ reattempt would be successful – of that, the _Supreme Commander_ was _certain._

As her fleet drew closer, the flames only grew and spread, as did the almost _overwhelming_ shrieks of panic and terror –

She was close enough to _see_ their faces.

They had chosen to enter from the back of the island, yes – but as of now, the docks were already set aflame by the cannons of the ten ships that had been assigned to circle around the island and block the main pathway of escape, the rest of Prima's enormous fleet now dispersing to form a _full_ circle around the island, effectively severing the bridge that connected Avery's court with Skull Mountain and cutting off any and _all_ means of escape by ship.

Of course, there was always the chance that some had fled earlier, if they had the good fortune of possessing keen eyes – but such numbers were _small,_ Prima knew, and they would not _matter,_ not if one looked at the _big picture,_ as the humans would have said.

With the island now surrounded, the clockworks of these crews rushed to drop the gangplanks that would unleash a _flood_ of their soldiers upon the island – even though Prima had designed this plan so that half of the crew of each ship would stay to man the cannons, to continue to rain shells and cannonballs upon the island even as the remaining survivors were slaughtered by blade and by musket.

Gripping the handle of her ornate sword ever more tightly, Prima had been the one to lead the charge.

Their Commander, their _leader –_ and the rest of the clockworks had followed, falling into perfect formation behind her as she led them onwards, clad in black and gold, just as the Lord Kane had been –

Although, _unlike_ Kane, Prima would _finish_ the job – she was _sure_ of it.

" _Forwards!"_

And the bloody battle _erupted._

All at once, pirates seemed to surge out from _everywhere –_ the streets, the alleyways, half-dead trainees with smoldering weapons having just emerged from the burning ruins of what had been their residences – but Prima was _prepared._

Such was all part of the _plan._

"Target the trainers, they'll be among them!"

Even in this _chaos,_ Prima's soaring voice still carried over the noise – her message clear to all under her command, and she _knew_ that they would be _successful._

If there was truly one positive attribute that Prima had noticed regarding the pirates of Skull Island, it was their die-hard attitude, as one might put it – or their _perseverance,_ perhaps, in how they absolutely _refused_ to surrender, to how they fought to their last man.

This would only mean that, as risky as it was, in a scenario such as this even when Prima's clockworks had them _hopelessly_ outnumbered, the trainers would be among the fray, defending their island, their students and trainees, until they could no longer.

 _Perhaps such is indeed honorable._

Nevertheless, this task would be left to her overwhelming number of supremely skilled soldiers – for she had a much more _important_ mission, and that was to cut off the head of the _snake._ Naturally, her target was none other than _Captain Horace Avery_ herself.

Not letting a single _second_ pass her by, Prima sharply turned and sprinted for the manor of the Captain Avery himself – if her calculations were correct, and he truly was as massive of a _coward_ as he had been in the past, _this_ was where she would find him.

He had barricaded the front door indeed, but this weak attempt at defense was quickly _demolished_ by three shots from the autocannons of the two dragoons that had followed her, blasting the door to mere splinters, splinters and rubble that she simply _stepped_ over as the small squadron that had followed her remained behind, behind to fend off any of the pirates that would fling themselves to their _death_ in an attempt to prevent the _murder_ of their ironically _beloved_ Captain.

 _Unsurprisingly,_ Avery was within the manor, just as she had expected – but unlike what Prima had predicted, he had been _waiting_ for her.

"Going for the _head of the beast,_ are ye now, _Commodore?"_

The brown-wigged pirate was standing directly in the middle of the room, his stance oozing nothing but _confidence_ and a rather large sword clutched in his hand – the point of which was aimed directly at Prima's chest.

Prima had stared _directly_ back at him with her same _iron, unyielding_ gaze.

"The title is _Commander."_

And she _lunged_ herself at him with more _fury_ than she had _ever_ thought herself capable of, raining strikes and sweeps at him _mercilessly_ with her own razor-sharp blade, _barely_ giving Avery, who was indeed a skilled swordsman himself, enough time to react as he attempted to fend her off, the fear and _shock_ evident in his eyes –

" _Captain - !"_

"She's going to _kill_ him, _help_ him - !"

As _expected,_ some of the pirates, some of Avery's _loyal_ soldiers had attempted to leap to his aid – only to become _impaled_ upon the halberds of the marines and the greatswords of the dragoons, only to be _shot down_ by the snipers from _miles_ away.

She would not have _any_ interference – _this_ was how it was to be, one _Commander_ felling another.

Avery was indeed _clever,_ Prima would admit, and she had come rather _close_ to having her own throat sliced when he had leaped upon his desk and fought her from a _much_ higher standpoint, only for Prima to nearly _detach_ his feet from underneath him and forcing him back onto level ground.

"You and your forces are to be _exterminated_ by my hand, _pirate - !"_

"You're _crazy – "_

Prima dodged a strike before slicing _brutally_ at Avery's side, successfully carving open a gash upon his abdomen and spilling his own blood upon him –

" _Your days are at an end, Avery."_

"My end won't be brought by _you, DEMON BITCH!"_

Avery nearly _flung_ himself upon her with more _fervor_ than she had _ever_ seen in a human being, despite his weakening condition and the _blood_ pouring out of his wound – and Prima _knew_ what this was.

It was _desperation,_ it was a human, a _mortal_ human desperately clinging onto his last shreds of hope, of _life._

Of life that would, no doubt, be ended soon.

Sparks _flying_ between the blades as more pirates now rushed upon the Armada blockade before the front door of the manor, filling the air with their screams, their attempts to _warn_ Avery of her unrelenting advance, Prima parried his strikes _expertly,_ as his aim was wavering, his _strength_ was wavering.

He had fought valiantly indeed – but this would be his _last battle,_ she knew.

It was time to _finish_ this.

Surging forwards, Prima blocked his blade with her own and thrust out a heeled foot, kicking him once, squarely in the chest. It was all too _easy_ to knock him over onto his back, and the Supreme Commander now stood over him, her bloodstained blade pointed directly at his throat.

" _You…you may have finished me…but you'll never…you'll NEVER take the island…! My pirates will fight…they'll fight for their freedom…they'll never be held down by…by a TYRANT…!"_

His breath came in _rasping,_ bloody, _horrid_ gasps, his face nearly _ashen_ from the bloodloss, and Prima rose her own sword high, high above her head.

"I am afraid that they will not have a _choice._ "

After all, the submission of the island was _imminent –_ and Avery's face _paled_ even more, if that was even _possible,_ as he now _realized_ this.

" _No…!"_

" _For the glory of the Armada!"_

With a single swing and a sickening _slice,_ the Supreme Commander of the clockwork Armada quite literally _cut off_ the head of the beast – and time seemed to stand still.

Her sword dropped from her gloved, bloodstained hand to the carpeted floor, and the pirates who had been struggling ever so _fervently_ at the doorway froze as they took in the sight –

The sight of their _beloved_ Captain upon the floor, his head now _several_ feet away from his body as blood slowly drained from the _stump_ that had once been his neck.

" _Captain..."_

" _She…she killed – "_

"Finish them."

Prima's voice was _ever_ , if not _more_ steady than before – and without a single second's worth of hesitation, the clockworks that had been barricading the door cut down the last of Avery's loyal soldiers.

They had died quietly, still in _shock_ from the death of their leader, wide eyed and paralyzed, just like a doe seconds before she would be shot to death.

And yet, Prima felt _nothing –_ her _understanding_ of emotions was locked down, it was buried deep, for she was the _Supreme Commander –_ the Supreme Commander of an Armada which had just gained a new colony.

It had only taken a few more _hours_ for the rest of her soldiers to _end_ any of the survivors who had been brave – or perhaps _stupid –_ enough to show their face – and those who had _willingly_ surrendered, as there were quite a _number_ of them, had been imprisoned within those buildings that had been left standing.

The imprisonment was only a formality, of course, the Supreme Commander knew – for she would have her _perfection,_ all in _due time._

Captain Avery's body had also been cleaned away – Prima had not wished to look upon his decapitated head any longer, for such served no _purpose._ Rather, she would focus her efforts on slowly converting what had once been known as _Avery's court_ into the _fortress,_ the center of this _colony._

"Supreme Commander."

One of the dragoons flanking the doorway saluted as she turned swiftly on her heel, tilting her head slightly towards him in acknowledgement as she adjusted the high, fan-like collar of her coat.

"Captains Servus Albus of the White Cadre and Servus Carbo of the Black Cadre present to report, my Lord."

"Send them in."

 _Excellent –_ just as she had planned – for after obtaining the information that they held, further plans could be constructed much more _thoroughly._

Side by side, the two Captains had entered, saluting in perfect synchronization just as protocol demanded before stepping closer, now standing before their Commodore-made-Commander.

Such was the position they had so often found themselves in before – standing _before_ Prima, as her loyal and _unwavering_ subordinates.

As was _planned,_ Servus Carbo had spoken first –

"Supreme Commander, the clockwork casualties are one-hundred-and-three – although any remaining resisting pirates have been _eradicated._ "

"Excellent."

As Carbo had spoken, Prima had pushed open the side doors to one of the many balconies, stepping out upon it, her two Captains trailing her, as she now looked over the entirety of the island that had been _subdued,_ that had been _conquered_ so quickly.

Indeed, she certainly could _see_ that her captain's report was _accurate._

The entire _island_ seemed to be bathed in blood, with piles and _piles_ of corpses lying everywhere she looked –

And yet, she did not take any _pleasure_ in it.

It was merely a _part_ of the Grand Design, a _step_ in the plan, a step that had to be _taken,_ a task that had to be _done._

"Albus…what of the trainers?"

"Terminated as well," the musketeer officer had replied, "all but _one_."

At this, Prima stiffened.

"All but _one,_ Captain?"

"The witchdoctor known as _Madame Vadima_ has disappeared."

A breeze had blown across the balcony then, and Prima was grateful, for it had lessened the effects of her own _rising_ temperature.

 _Vadima lives._

This opened up _many_ possibilities, none of which were _advantageous_ for the Armada – however, there was nothing that could be _done_ regarding this situation at the moment, other than upholding the established blockade and strengthening the patrols and security upon the island.

"I see…"

Prima's fingers curled ever more tightly around the railing of the balcony.

"And what of _Hunter Chamberlain?"_

She could practically _feel_ Albus' shiver for him – and it was likely that his marine counterpart could as well, for he had answered _for_ him.

"Hunter Chamberlain has been reported as having _disappeared_ as well, Commander."

* * *

From the helm of the _Knave's Voyager,_ Andrew and Zachary watched Skull Island go up in flames with wide eyes and stopped hearts.

It was indeed _lucky_ that Zachary had _heard_ the noises of the ships of the Armada fleet early on – for no more than _ten_ minutes after they had hastily boarded Andrew's ship and set sail, the docks had been blown to smithereens, along with the ships that had still remained tied to them.

Even from _this_ distance, all the way from the entrance of Corsair's Cove, where many of the other escapees had fled to, they could still hear the _horrific_ screams of the wounded, captured and dying.

And although the both of them had been lucky enough to _escape,_ Andrew could not _help_ but to conclude that it truly was of no _use –_

That they were as _good_ as dead.

The island had been burned, as he could so plainly see –

And his _contraptions,_ his makeshift laboratory, had been _demolished_ along with it. If anything had _survived_ the flames, it would likely be found and destroyed by the Armada faster than he could even _dream_ of retrieving it.

 _Without_ them –

"They might as well have _killed_ us."

Zachary had _spat_ the sentence with a mixture of pure, undiluted _anger_ and hatred, the level of which Andrew had never _seen_ within him –

"Our home is _destroyed._ Anything valuable we had was inside the apartment – "

" _Not necessarily._ "

"How so?!" Zachary's head shot up _instantly_ at the musketeer's contradiction, as just a few _seconds_ ago, Andrew had been just as pessimistic as Zachary himself was now.

Rather than answering him directly, the musketeer, suddenly having taken on an unexplained _burst_ of energy, leapt up to the helm, pulling what seemed to be a rather badly folded map out of one of his jacket pockets. It was only after the witchdoctor had repeated the question several times, and rather _insistently_ as well, that he _finally_ got his answer.

"We'll set our course to Marleybone."

"Marleybone?! But what's – "

"I've got a cousin there, and he's in some sort of an arms guild."

His own voice was gruff and unrelenting – Zachary did not _dare_ to question him.

Slowly, Andrew guided the _Knave's Voyager_ out of the entrance to the cove, where it had been half-hidden, and into the windlane, sailing now towards Port Regal at full speed ahead.

Behind them, Skull Island continued to burn.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12: Abyss**

" _Decimus!"  
_

Two large, powerful hands gripped the marksman's thin shoulder blades, shaking him with enough force to nearly shatter his skeletal structure –

" _Decimus…can you hear me…?!"_

Even though he had not quite regained enough coordination to _move_ his own frame, or even to nod in acknowledgement that he could indeed hear, Decimus had recognized the speaker's voice as that of the Polarian scavenger that had saved and aided him.

 _Vladimir –_ the Polarian did sound quite panicked _,_ as Decimus would _know –_ for he must have appeared _terminated,_ lying unmoving and temporarily paralyzed.

Of course, this then brought the gaping question of _how_ he had come to be so, but as of now, there were no clues to be gathered – he could not even _see_ clearly.

Slowly, minute by minute, the clockwork marksman's strength began to return to him, more quickly than was expected but still not quickly _enough,_ as with every second that Decimus remained unmoving and unresponsive, Vladimir's panic escalated –

And they would be discovered _._

Partially fueled and driven by this sudden burst of his _own_ panic, Decimus twitched once, weakly _,_ his shaking hand pushing against the floor that he was currently sprawled upon for reasons still unknown to him. However, it did seem that the Polarian scavenger had _noticed_ this slight movement.

Muttering frantically in his own native tongue, Vladimir carefully pulled Decimus up into somewhat of a sitting position against the wall as the marksman now regained enough coordination to fully move his limbs, gripping at the Polarian's wrist, as that was the _only_ thing to hold on to.

However, his confusion only _grew_ as his vision began to re-focus –

As it did appear, Decimus found, he had been lying sprawled upon the floor – and he had been thrown down by some great impact,judging from how his now re-opened stab wound and the dull pain of the force that still lingered in his frame.

 _Decimus, can you hear me?_

The marksman could not speak, he could only manage a single weak nod in reply to Vladimir's now-muffled words –

But his focus was elsewhere at the moment.

 _What happened…?_

 _And why –_

As Decimus continued to take in his surroundings, he found that he was not alone in having been thrown unceremoniously off of the box bed – the floor was absolutely _covered_ in papers, as well as overturned chests and possessions, all randomly strewn across the floor –

 _There was a storm, a large storm, a massive storm, and it knocked the both of us out –_

"A storm…?"

Decimus' own voice wavered, it _shook_ as he slowly pushed himself further up –

"An _enormous_ storm, yes…"

Out of the very corner of his vision, Decimus could see that Vladimir himself bore physical evidence of impact, as one side of his face was heavily bruised, no doubt from connecting with the wall –

 _Yes,_ he remembered, _that's right._

They had been thrown against the wall.

 _Numerous times –_

And not just against the _wall -_ against the floor, the sides of the bed, and then the _ceiling –_ which was when all had faded to _black,_ disorienting and temporarily paralyzing the both of them.

"Are you hurt?"

"There's been a…a _storm…_ "

A storm that had tossed them about as if this massive ship weighed no more than a feather, with such _force_ that the ship had flipped upside down _,_ he remembered, for it was _all coming back._

And given that they were now currently upright and unmoving, with the ship at a complete standstill save for the minuscule drifting –

This ship was no longer where it had originally been.

Shaking Vladimir's grip off of his shoulders, Decimus _leaped_ to his feet, regardless of how his legs were shaking underneath him as he did so and the Polarian's hissed whispers of protest, fueled by his own panic as he sprinted out of the door of the small cabin.

The marksman had continued to race through the narrow halls, his own steps shaky and uneven as he pushed off of the walls for support, all the meanwhile noting how the _rest_ of the ship was in the same state of disarray, which only further confirmed that this _terrifying_ storm had indeed occurred.

"Decimus, _wait!"_

Vladimir's call had been futile – for Decimus had only _continued_ to run, and the Polarian could barely stand in his own battered state, unable to raise his voice any louder, leaning against the wall of his cabin and gritting his teeth against the pain that surged through his entire body as he muttered countless curses, all the while attempting to stagger towards the cabin door, his muscles and bones practically _screaming_ in protest.

In this state, there was no _way_ that Decimus could remain undiscovered, not _anymore._

* * *

His own panic having pushed him to the point of _hyperventilation,_ as he could so plainly _hear_ even over the frantic haze that was _panic,_ Decimus sprinted up the steep staircase that led to the deck, flinging the door open as he stumbled out –

Only to be met with _blackness._

There was light from the lanterns that hung along the walls of the hallway behind him and the railings of the ship itself, but it was only enough for one to see a few feet in front of them, yet, without any further thought, Decimus continued to run forwards, forwards until he felt the railing along the side of the ship press into his torso, preventing him from literally _flinging_ himself off.

Off into the _darkness_ below.

Upon looking down _,_ Decimus had instantly _frozen_ in fear –

For there was no sky to be seen, there were no windlanes, _no_ landmasses whatsoever surrounding them –

There was only this _never-ending blackness,_ for this was an _unimaginable_ depth _–_

As proven by what Decimus had seen upon looking up _._

At first, there had been only more blackness, _more_ of this never-ending void that made this all seem like another hallucination rather than reality, for it was too _horrible –_

That was, until the marksman's vision had focused just a _little_ more, allowing him to now see what seemed like small glowing spheres far off in the distance.

These appeared to be stars _,_ almost, until Decimus had realized –

They were _worlds._

 _How…?!_

Instead of large and looming _,_ as they were when Decimus had sailed between worlds before on countless patrol ships, the worlds of the observable Spiral seemed to be hundreds, if not thousands of miles away from where the Polarian ship was now – and Decimus could not bring himself to move any longer, he could only stare up hopelessly, in awe, in _fear,_ and at a _complete_ loss as to how this ship had ended up so _far –_

" _Armada!"_

There was a great thudding, rumbling noise, as if a stampede was approaching, and Decimus whirled around, his hand flying to the dagger sheathed in the belt around his waist and unsheathing it just as six Polarian humans, all of an even larger build than Vladimir was (as he was the youngest of them, after all), ran up onto the deck, all of them rather bruised, battered, and as of now, _enraged._

"A _clockwork?!"_

"He _invaded_ our ship – "

"How the _hell…?"_

They were unarmed _,_ as far as Decimus could see – and he truly had _nothing_ to lose.

He _ran._

" _Damn it_ , _catch him!"_

Given that his frame weighed no more than fifty pounds, just as allArmada marksmen, musketeers, and snipers did, Decimus was able to run towards the stern, placing some distance between himself and the angry Polarian crew –

However, such did not last for long, as now that his uniform jacket and shirt had been taken from him, leaving only several layers of bloodstained bandages to cover his torso, he was not exactly difficult to spot when the rest of the ship was shrouded in _darkness._

" _There!"_

Having run to the very back of the ship, Decimus could not evade the crew of the _Sapfir_ any longer as they charged at him from _all_ sides, forcing him to frantically twist out of the way of their brutal swings and punches.

As agile as Decimus was, he could only do this for _so_ long before one of the crew members had caught his arm, preventing him from darting away yet again as he was pushed down onto his back, the scavenger who had grabbed him in the first place now planting a large knee on his thin torso, another one of them reaching down and wrenching the military dagger from his grip.

Now, he truly _was_ defenseless –

The scavenger above him snarled and unsheathed his own dagger, pressing the edge of the blade into the marksman's throat _just_ enough to break the outer most layer of flesh-metal. Decimus felt his own _panic_ skyrocket, and he thrashed weakly against the scavenger's hold, but the little strength within his thin frame was _no_ match –

Would he be terminated here?

Looking up, Decimus locked eyes with the man who would presumably be his _killer,_ long enough for the Polarian to _hiss_ a single sentence –

"Here you will _die, d'yavol!"_

And although Decimus did not speak the language that these scavengers did, he certainly did understand what he had meant _–_

 _Devil._

His hands curling into fists, Decimus braced himself –

" _Get OFF of him!"_

Twitching his head slightly to the side, Decimus was able to see that it was none other than Vladimir who had shouted –

Only he was accompanied by the Captain of the ship, judging by the other man's demeanor and clothing – as his coat was much more brocaded than those of his crew.

However, the Polarian scavenger on top of Decimus had not yet moved, nor had the others –

"You _heard_ him."

The Captain had barely spoken, but the few words that he _did_ utter seemed to carry enough hidden power behind them that his crew was forced into compliance, instantly obeying, and the knife-wielding scavenger stood, lifting the blade from Decimus' throat and the weight from his chest, allowing him to _gasp_ for air in order to neutralize the heat that his inner systems had generated.

"Aleks, how can you tell us to – "

" _Silence."_

"He is a _clockwork,_ aboard _our_ ship!"

" _SILENCE!"_

 _Their Captain's name is Aleks…?_

Now with nothing preventing him from doing so, Decimus slowly stood once again, one of his hands flying to the wound on his torso as the other clutched at the railing on the side of the ship in an attempt to straighten himself into the proper posture becoming of a soldier.

"Vladimir, what is the _meaning_ of this?"

So the Captain _was_ clueless, Decimus concluded –

He had merely _trusted_ his crewmember, and such was the _only_ reason why Decimus' life had been spared.

"I had found him after the ambush in the wastelands – "

"And you did not _tell_ me of this? He is a soldier of the _Armada – "_

"I was afraid of _this_ happening."

 _This –_ the crew of the _Sapfir_ attacking him, _killing_ him.

"He was – he _is_ wounded, the warriors had stabbed him…and the rest of his squadron had _left him behind."_

Aleks' brow furrowed in confusion –

"That has _never_ happened before."

 _Leaving a soldier behind._

It was practically _allowing_ information to fall into the hands of the enemy, of the Resistance _,_ hence why even the frames of the terminated were retrieved.

"It is an _opportunity_ , Aleks – and he may be of _help_ to us, now more than before."

 _An opportunity to learn more, to learn more about the enemy, about the perfect soldiers of the clockwork Armada._

Decimus did not heed Vladimir's words _too_ much, however – as it was uncertain as to whether he was _saying_ these things as to gain the trust of the Captain, or if he _truly_ had only intended to turn Decimus into an _observation,_ an _experiment,_ just as Bishop would have done, had Decimus remained at the fortress.

" _Help_ to us?!"

"Yes – "

" _How_ so?"

Vladimir had stuttered at first – and for an instant, Decimus had felt his own fear threaten to overcome him once more, for _what if_ Vladimir did not _have_ a good enough explanation, he thought, what if he did not have any particular reason, and therefore there would be nothing stopping the others from _killing_ -

"His calculations are more precise than any navigation instrument I have _ever_ seen."

At this, the Captain – _Aleks_ seemed to pause in thought.

" _Are_ they, now?"

Vladimir nodded –

"During the storm – he could tell the _exact_ angle that the ship was tilted."

Although the Captain had seemed to take this into consideration, the crewmembers of the _Sapfir_ were not nearly as convinced – if anything, they only seemed _more_ wary of Decimus than ever before.

But the _Captain_ was the authority, he was the final say upon whether Decimus would remain in function or be terminated.

 _Not_ the crew.

Stepping away from the railing and slightly towards where Decimus and the other scavengers were standing, Aleks crooked a single finger towards Decimus.

"Follow me."

Of course, Decimus had done so without hesitation, almost painfully aware of how thin and frail he must have appeared, without anything covering his torso save for the bloodstained bandages.

Even though Decimus was vulnerable and unarmed and wounded, yes, he was still an Armada clockwork, a heartless, soulless, _ruthless_ mechanical soldier built and designed to _kill._

And yet, Aleks had not seemed to show the slightest bit of fear at the sight of him.

The Captain of the _Sapfir_ had led Decimus back below deck, walking down the narrow hallway within the ship until they came to a single door at the very end of it. Aleks pushed the door open, standing aside to allow Decimus, as well as the rest of the crew (who had trailed him, having obviously not trusted the marksman) inside.

The room appeared to be an engine chamber of sorts, almost – and Decimus had initially been rather caught off-guard, as he had not seen anything remotely similar before in ships other than those of the Armada, which had entire control panels.

However, this was a ship of Polaris –

"This is more of a furnace for the ship than anything else," Aleks had explained, gesturing to what did indeed _look_ to be a furnace that one might find within a steam engine, "to prevent the weapons and supplies from taking damage from the cold."

Behind him, Decimus could hear unsettled whisperings from those of the crew – but such was _expected,_ given at how their Captain seemed to be giving a clockwork so much _information._

However, such had not been his goal –

Rather, Aleks was now pointing to the few small dials along the wall next to it, and Decimus stepped forwards hesitantly so that he was now close enough to _touch_ them if he wished. It was strange indeed that there was no gun pressed to his back or knife held to his throat –

But their Captain likely knew _,_ he _knew_ that Decimus could not do anything when he was unarmed, wounded, and surrounded by several who were _much_ stronger than he.

"When I first came to after the storm, I had immediately checked the readings – the heat that _this_ provides is essential to our survival."

Unlike his crew, Aleks was completely at ease, his own heavily-accented voice holding no trace of fear or of aggression, sounding instead characteristic to one who was in a quandary.

"However – "He tapped the glass of the third dial once – _"_ This one now acts _strangely_."

Upon leaning slightly closer, allowing his vision to focus upon the small markings, Decimus found that the dial was an indicator of altitude _,_ and that it did indeed act strangely in the manner that the thin needle swung from one end of it to the other at a _frantic_ pace.

Upon first glance, it seemed merely broken _–_ but Decimus did _recognize_ its behavior. Even though he had never seen it on any navigational instrument himself, all Armada clockworks had been programmed to have adequate knowledge of countless scenarios –

And this was one of them _,_ as rare and unlikely as it was –

 _Impossible._

Turning quickly on his heel, Decimus ran out of the chamber.

" _Damn_ it, now he's escaped!"

And without for a second thinking of the fact that Decimus could not escape, that there was absolutely _nothing_ surrounding the ship, the crewmembers and Captain of the _Sapfir_ chased after him, back above deck, only to find the marksman leaning _precariously_ over the railing.

Vladimir had been the one to grab his shoulder and yank him back, almost partially afraid that he would leap into the endless darkness rather than be held prisoner on a Polarian ship, only to find that Decimus did not resist whatsoever.

Rather, he only fell back against the scavenger, having been thrown off-balance by the sudden jolt, and pointing a single thin finger out into the blackness.

"There are wreckages of _ships -_ "

" _Ships?!"_

"He's _right!"_

Almost immediately, the rest of the scavengers had gathered at the railing, each of them peering into the darkness at what had at first seemed like endless clouds of mist –

However, as just Ivan – the scavenger who had shouted – and Decimus had seen, it soon became evident that the faint outlines that they could make out were of piles of driftwood, of half-snapped masts and tattered sails, no doubt without any living crew.

And it was only then that the full realization of just how deserted _,_ how _disconnected_ they truly were from _any_ civilization hit them.

"God save us…"

"What _is_ this…?!"

" _An abyss."_

Even though Decimus' voice had been barely audible in that one second, it was as if he had somehow cast a spell over the entire ship – for the scavengers of the crew then fell silent and turned _directly_ to face him.

Although they did not speak further, the demand to _explain_ – or _else –_ was almost _overbearing._

"It is a center of gravity below…below a great majority of the… _observable_ worlds."

" _Below…?!"_

And it all made _sense –_ the wreckages, the inability of the outdated instruments to determine their location, their altitude above the windlanes –

 _This_ was where the ships would plummet to when they were shot out of the skyways.

An uninhabited, barren, forsaken region – even the brutal snowstorms of the Polarian wastelands did not compare to this _,_ in which _nothing_ grew, in which _nothing_ lived, save for this eternal _blackness._

Although most of the scavengers seemed to slowly comprehend their own current predicament, or at least _attempt_ to, there was still one _–_ the name of which Decimus did not know – who refused to accept this, and he angrily stormed towards him, fists clenched and a strange mixture of fear and _hatred_ in his eyes.

"You _lie!"_

"My words are factual – "

" _What_ brought us down _here,_ then, and _how_ are we still _alive_ when _nothing_ else can survive in this _hell?!"_

This was the very same scavenger who had held the knife to his throat, Decimus realized, and it took all of his effort to keep from falling into complete and total panic once more.

"I…I do not _know,_ the storm had _– "  
_

"Then _how_ are we to escape this?! We are _damned,_ just like the _rest of them!"_

 _The rest of those unfortunate enough to survive the sinking only to perish here –_

"We are _not –_ and I will _never_ hear such talk on my ship _again!"_

The Captain was now standing directly behind Decimus, and the marksman could not see his face at the moment, but he was almost certain that if he were to look into his eyes, he would see the very same _determination_ that was characteristic of the humans, of the mortal beings – it was one of their advantages.

"We _will_ make it out of this – this ship, this crew has braved snowstorms that have killed _thousands_ before, we have evaded entire _fleets –_ how is _this_ any different?"

And yet, although it was possible to tell that the _morale_ of the crew had increased slightly, there was still the unspoken question that none of them _dared_ to pose.

 _How?_

"This soldier is a _clockwork –_ he has more adequate knowledge of physics and mechanics than we could ever hope to gain. He will _help_ us engineer our ship in the necessary manner – "

Aleks had paused before speaking again –

"If he intends to remain _alive._ "

At this, Decimus spun around to face the Captain, his limbs stiff with _fear._

If he did not comply, they would terminate him – and perhaps not as mercifully as the warrior who had delivered his stab wound almost had, not to mention that he was indeed unfamiliar with situations such as this and was not _certain_ of the results –

"And how do you know that he will not simply _kill_ himself, as the warriors of Mooshu do?!"

The crew doubted him still, as he had _expected -_

"Had he wished to _die,_ he would have flung himself over the railing _long_ ago!"

Such was indeed true, yes, Decimus knew – as much as death did seem a mercy from his memories of _her,_ from his own _Supreme Commander,_ self-preservation was still deeply ingrained within his programming.

"What are you called?"

" _Decimus."_

"Decimus, _will you cooperate?"_

 _Is there truly any other option?_

" _Affirmative."_

 _For now._

With this matter determined, Aleks had then motioned for his crew to follow him back below decks, leaving Decimus alone –

After all, the marksman truly had _no_ other option – for while he was here, he was away from Cadiz, away from the Supreme Commander who wished only to _harm_ him. Perhaps this was indeed his best predicament, the lesser of the evils.

Collecting what little scraps remained of his own stability and strength, Decimus turned and started to follow the rest of the crew back below – when he had _heard_ it.

A voice, a _female_ voice, shrill and eerie and grating, yet with some traces of former melodic beauty, paralyzing him, _stopping_ Decimus in his tracks and filling him with never-ending dread –

" _There you are…!"_

* * *

 **I hope you enjoyed, and be sure to leave a review!**

 **Also the document manager on somehow deleted a bunch of spaces between random words and smashed them together. I tried to fix as many as I could find manually, but I apologize if I did not find them all.**

 **\- Severina**


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13: Familiar Faces**

Ducking down in the longboat that he and Zachary were both currently in, Andrew continued to row, steering them closer to the side of the Isle of Fetch.

"Andrew, _where_ are we – "

" _Sssh!"_

He had not spoken any more afterwards – after all, this particular segment, the Isle to the North, as it was called, had been almost completely overrun by clockworks since the very beginning of the war, and it was crucial not to attract unnecessary attention to themselves, if they were to remain undiscovered –

Undiscovered and _alive._

If what the both of them had seen – that the clockworks that had attacked Skull Island addressed the _former_ Commodore Prima Militus as _Commander –_ was true, then it could only mean that the former Commander had been killed, or _terminated,_ as the clockwork soldiers themselves liked to word it.

It would also mean a rather dramatic increase in security in important locations such as these, and therefore, a higher chance of their discovery, thus making _caution_ all the more crucial.

Now having guided the longboat so that it was alongside the back of the island, behind several rows of buildings so that their only means of arrival and escape would stay hidden, Andrew carefully tied the rope connected to the boat to a rather large rock that was jutting out of the side of the island, making sure the knot was secure before climbing out. One of his hands ran over his belt, making sure that he still had both of his pistols.

" _Hurry!"_

Andrew silently gestured for Zachary as he took care to hide himself within the shadows of the adjacent house, the witchdoctor clambering out of the boat after laying the oars down flat at the bottom of it.

"Where do we – "

" _Sssh!"_

Zachary's eyebrow twitched in annoyance – likely from being silenced rather abruptly _again,_ but he complied, looking to the musketeer for further instruction.

After all, Andrew had visited the Isle of Fetch frequently – both before and after it had been taken by the Armada. It was only natural to assume that he did, in fact, _know_ his way in and out of this place.

"Follow me."

Without a single word further, Andrew drew one of his pistols, cocking it in preparation before he pressed himself against the wall of the house that they were both currently behind and sneaking along it, looking around the corner. He gave a single thumbs up, then sprinted across the gap between the building they were behind and the one directly in front of it.

 _So this is how it'll work._

Internally shrugging, Zachary did the same – checking what little segment of the street was visible for any patrolling clockworks before dashing across to join the musketeer.

However, he could not help but notice that he was now gripping his dagger much _harder_ than before – but one could not exactly blame him, given that he was forced to leave his staff behind while they were sneaking about an Armada- _infested_ island.

He could only hope that Andrew's directions would be _accurate._

Deciding to simply place his trust in the musketeer and _not_ allow his own mind to get caught up in the multiple possibilities in which they would get discovered and likely killed, Zachary found that it continued on like this for quite a while – checking corners before _sprinting_ across to the next building as fast as was humanly possible.

And naturally, it was rather tiresome – both physically and mentally.

"How far away _is_ this place?"

"Zachary, if you don't _shut up," Andrew_ snipped, pushing his glasses up on his sweat-coated nose, "I will make sure to take the _longest_ route possible."

 _That_ certainly was enough to ensure the witchdoctor's _total_ silence for the rest of their _journey_.

After about twenty minutes of this same manner of movement, Andrew had suddenly come to a sudden halt, holding up a single hand behind him to make sure that Zachary did the same.

"We're here."

Not willing to holster his pistol to point, Andrew jerked his chin once in the direction of a rather small, run-down building – a workshop, it looked like, with a second floor that likely housed whoever ran it.

"And your cousin's inside?"

"He _should_ be."

As much as Andrew had tried to hide it, there was no _disguising_ that slight note of hesitation from the witchdoctor, and Zachary knew full well what Andrew feared.

This segment of the island was indeed _crawling_ with clockworks – and if his cousin had decided to remain, there was a _high_ chance that he had already been discovered, with the sheer _number_ of patrols upon the streets and how smoked and battered the outer wooden walls of the building already were, as if there had been a fight or a conflict of some sort.

And yet, there was still that _one possibility._

Steeling himself, Andrew nudged his glasses up further on his nose – it was a nervous habit of his that he had never broken – and motioned for Zachary to keep close. He looked around the corner one _last_ time before making the short dash from the shadows of the house that they were hiding behind to the doorstep of the workshop, pushing the door open gingerly as to not allow the hinges to squeak before slipping inside.

He had not _deserted_ Zachary, of course, as the witchdoctor knew – it was simply unsafe for him to remain so visible in a war zone such as this – but that did not make his current predicament any less _terrifying._

It was indeed a risky move when the witchdoctor had completely forgotten to look around the corner for any nearby patrolling clockworks, but he had made it into the workshop undetected nevertheless, most likely by another stroke of pure luck. Andrew had been waiting for him inside, quickly shutting the door after him –

"You _idiot!_ You could have been seen – "

"But I wasn't!"

"I – ugh, _never mind."_ Andrew waved it off with a slight brush of his hand – it would be rather unwise to argue at the moment when the chances of detection were _this_ high.

Turning their attention once again to the task at hand, they began to search the first floor of the workshop – which seemed to be in a rather severe state of disarray, judging from the catalogues and unfinished muskets and swords that lay about the room – not to mention the _enormous_ layer of dust that seemed to cover _everything._

" _Dammit!"_

Andrew's sudden hiss had startled Zachary – and he turned towards him sharply, fearing that he had been hurt –

"What happened?"

"We're leaving new footprints in this coat of dust – this place looks like it's been deserted for a while, but if the clockworks come in, they'll know we've been here – "

" _Relax."_ Zachary rolled his golden eyes in that signature nerve-gratingmanner, "I can stir up the dust cloud after we're done here – you just have to hold your breath."

Had they not been in a state of mortal danger, Andrew would have sighed indignantly – somehow, even though the witchdoctor was about five times as reckless as Andrew himself ever could become, he _always_ seemed to beat the odds.

" _Anyways,_ it doesn't look like anyone's been here in the last three _years."_

"Not unless they've _only_ been upstairs – _look!"_

Gesturing for Zachary to come over to where he was now standing – next to the narrow staircase in the rightmost wall that led to a single door on the second floor – Andrew pointed to the stairs themselves. Unlike the rest of the workshop, they were completely free of dust.

Which could only mean –

 _He's still alive._

However, upon entering the upper floor, which was a single small room containing a bed, a chair, and a small wooden table, they had found that he was not _here –_ not at the present moment, at least.

"Hang on…"

Adjusting his cumbersomely thick-lensed glasses once more, Andrew holstered his pistol in favor of having both of his hands free to dig through the numerous internal pockets in his brown leather vest, finally withdrawing a sheet of folded, aged parchment and laying it out upon the table to the right of him. It soon became clear that this was a map – a map drawn of a rather complicated system of tunnels, or some other system of pathways.

"What…?"

"He said that if he was ever gone from this place, I would find him with _this._ "

The musketeer had only taken a few _seconds_ at most to study the map, likely due to his advantage of having a photographic memory, before he folded the map back up and tucked it safely into the same pocket that he had retrieved it from, turning and heading back down the staircase to the first floor without a single word to the witchdoctor.

This in itself did irk Zachary slightly – as he hated being clueless – but given that Andrew was much more knowledgeable of this situation than he was, perhaps blindly following was indeed the best idea for now.

Taking care to lighten his steps so that the stairs would not creak and alert the nearby soldiers to their position, Zachary followed Andrew as the musketeer disappeared into the adjacent room. This room was also small – although unlike the last one, its walls were covered in dusty shelves, which held equally-as-filthy containers, vials, and bottles.

 _A gunpowder development lab?_

"Down here!"

Zachary snapped his head towards Andrew, who had pushed aside the only rug in the furthermost corner of the room to reveal a trapdoor –

"Does it lead to a cellar or something?"

"I _think_ so…"

Waiting for the witchdoctor to cross the room, Andrew then lowered himself into the trapdoor feet first, Zachary following him only after casting a simple spell to stir up the dust within the room so that it would settle evenly once again, hiding all footprints and any other evidence of their presence.

Shutting the trapdoor behind him so that neither of them would inhale the dust, Zachary now jogged to catch up to Andrew – who had already began to make his way down the system of _tunnels_ that they now found themselves in.

 _Tunnels?_

It did seem rather unfamiliar indeed to the witchdoctor, for a simple workshop such as the one that they had been in only moments ago to have an entire network _this_ massive within its cellar – but as they continued down, their path lit by several lamps hanging from the ceilings, Zachary realized that they were within the main sewer systems of the _entire_ Isle.

"Why would your cousin be _here,_ of all places…?"

"I'm not entirely sure myself," Andrew said, pulling out the map for a brief second to glance at it – "But my guess is that it has something to do with his guild. It wouldn't be safe to stay above ground, not now…"

 _Not with the Armada having taken over._

They had continued on in silence for a rather extensive period of time, just as they had done behind the buildings upon arriving at the Isle – and it was clear to see, as they traversed further and further, that this labyrinth that was the sewer system of the Isle of Fetch had not yet been discovered by the clockworks –

Making it the _ideal_ safe location to hold any sort of meeting.

Now coming to a complete stop just before a sharp right turn, Andrew retrieved the map once again, shoving it in front of Zachary's face as if this would confirm their location, even though the witchdoctor truly could neither make head nor tail of it.

"We should be here, actually, it says that just around this corner, there's a – _agh!"_

Andrew had been cut off by a large hand that had slammed forcefully across his mouth, silencing him as the other hand of his attacker quickly twisted his arms behind his back.

"Let _go_ of him, you _bastard!"_ Zachary growled, rushing forwards towards the man that had grabbed him, daggers in hand –

Only to be roughly grabbed by the collar and forced to the ground by a much larger man from behind, his daggers wrenched from his grip.

"Looks like we found us some _intruders,_ did we?"

And although Zachary could not _see_ Andrew due to the fact that his face had been pressed into the floor, he could certainly hear his friend's muffled protests as he attempted tot tell them that _no,_ they were _not_ looking to sell them and the rest of the guild out to the Armada, even though none of his words were actually _comprehensible._

Of course, even if they were, it was not as if their assailants would believe him.

"Youtwo are comin' with _us –_ as much as we'd like to kill you now, the Leader's got the final say…even though it probably won't be much different than _ours!"_

Zachary's own attacker cackled almost _maliciously_. He hauled the witchdoctor to his feet, and Zachary himself could not help but internally _laugh_ at the irony of the situation as both he and Andrew were dragged around the last turn and into a rather large chamber holding about thirty occupants, a single man standing before them and giving some sort of speech –

They had indeed found the guild, but _not_ in the manner that they had expected to.

"Leader."

The man at the front of the room looked up – he was a tall Marleybonian of average build with brown hair pulled back into a ponytail and hands smudged by dirt and gunpowder.

His thin brows hardening in definite _anger,_ the Leader started towards them, and Zachary felt the fear hit him _hard,_ for if they would not give them a chance to explain themselves - !

"You _idiots,_ let _go_ of them!"

"Leader, they were – "

"That's my _cousin,_ Mister Blackwell – now _set him down!"_

The two acting guards that had dragged them in then froze – likely out of fear – and immediately dropped them onto the cobblestones of the floor, backing away soon after.

"Andrew, what are you _doing_ here? There's clockworks everywhere, and they could have caught you – "

"But they _didn't."_ Zachary sighed, pushing himself back to his feet as he brushed the dirt and dust off of his vest, the Leader now turning to him, seeming to _recognize_ his presence for the first time.

"You're a…friend of Andrew's…?"

"His name's Zachary," Andrew quickly cut in – for the witchdoctor had never been one for formalities, and if they were to win the favor of the guild, as well as the aid of his cousin, then they would need to make a _good_ impression. "And we've both come from Skull Island."

The chamber then fell so silent that it was possible to hear a pin drop before the murmuring began again.

"Skull Island, he says…?"

"They have the largest Resistance branch by far… "

"Doesn't the Chamberlain heir sponsor them?"

"Gentlemen, _please!"_

And _every_ head shot in Andrew's direction.

Although the musketeer did indeed know the importance of manners and _proper conduct_ in Marleybonian society, there was simply no _time –_

"I apologize for being so abrupt, but we have…we come bearing _horrible_ news."

"There is no need to apologize, Andrew," The Leader reassured, his voice still authoritative, but now having taken on a much softer tone, "Please do continue."

It was as if the Leader's approval had also translated to the approval of each and every man within the room – for as if a switch had been thrown within their minds, all traces of annoyance and irritation had disappeared, and they were now _truly_ listening attentively.

Andrew took a deep breath, steeling himself before finally speaking –

"Skull Island has been taken over by the Armada."

Silence.

As Andrew looked around the room, he could see a plethora of different emotions written upon the faces of the men of the arms guild – fear, namely, and shock as well – but there was also _disbelief._

"How is this _possible?!_ Skull island's Resistance branch – "

"Has fallen."

"And Captain Avery – "

"Is dead _._ "

" _Dead?!"_

Andrew simply nodded – he had a hard enough time accepting the reality of the situation himself, even now, even though he had _seen_ it with his own two eyes.

The murmuring amongst the men of the guild had began again – although this time, Andrew did not bother to silence it, for he was shocked as well, he could indeed relate to the whispers of _impossible_ and _how can this be_ that were floating around within the chamber.

Up until _that day,_ he had not thought that it would be possible to even _think_ of toppling Captain Avery, of toppling the Resistance branch of Skull Island.

Yet, it had happened – _she_ had done it.

"And also – "

Silence once more, although they listened with dread to this messenger –

"The Commodore Prima Militus now holds the position of _Supreme Commander."_

"Andrew, please – " It was the Leader who had once more spoken – "If this is some sort of sick _joke,_ I beg of you to stop, the Armada is nothing to - "

"I'm _serious!_ She led the attack herself, and she brought an entire _fleet_ with her!"

By now, the musketeer had almost descended into complete _panic,_ for he could remember what he had seen in perfect detail, such was the curse of his unusually impeccable memory – for he could practically _see_ the island going up in flames, the terrified faces of those who had attempted to flee at the last moment, only to be slashed and shot down by the clockwork soldiers.

It _haunted_ him – and it would forever.

"If you are… _truly_ serious…then we are _all_ threatened – the _Supreme Commander_ has made a…a _colony_ of the island…"

"I'm serious. It's _bad._ "

The Leader himself was quite shaken as well – and it truly was impossible to blame him, for given how _prosperous_ Skull Island had always been said to be, it was nearly _unimaginable_ to think that it could be toppled so, in one fell swoop, by the clockwork Armada, the ever-growing beast that had _finally_ pounced on the ultimatekill.

Clenching his fists to still his own shaking and forcing himself to take several deep breaths, obviously having worked himself up by merely recalling the night of the attack and takeover, Andrew slowly turned back to his cousin – the Leader of this underground guild.

"Ben, we need your help."

* * *

 **I hope you enjoyed, and be sure to leave a review!**

 **\- Severina**


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14: The Second Victim**

Sinking heavily into the chair behind the desk in the cabin of the _Unbroken Victory,_ his own Marleybonian skiff, Hunter weakly curled his fingers around the armrest, his other hand _caressing_ the onyx urn that now sat upon his desk before him.

 _Dangler._

 _Dangler_ was upon the desk before him, for somehow, he had managed to save her from the flames that had likely consumed his manor by now, he had saved her from the very Armada that had practically claimed her life, her life and now the lives of _thousands_ of others.

Thousands of the _innocent._

"It was… _horrible,_ Dangler…"

His voice was little more than a weak whisper, a rasping, shaking, _wavering_ whisper, most likely partially due to his own self-neglect and dehydration.

"So many…so many _died,_ so many were burned…they are nothing more than _ashes_ now…"

 _Ashes, ashes, just like you._

Hunter's fingernails clicked slightly along the engravings of the urn, tracing them delicately, gently, as if afraid that he would scrape them off just as easily as her flesh, her flesh that had turned to _ash,_ that had fallen from her bones.

"And it was… _ironic_ indeed, yes…do you know _why,_ Dangler…?"

And as if he had actually expected some sort of response, Hunter paused momentarily – and then his sunken eyes had widened a little, as if he was telling a great, legendary story.

"It's because it was the _Commodore Prima_ who led the invasion…or, to be more accurate, that _Supreme Commander_ Prima – and she brought her _entire fleet!"_

However, as unusually bright as Hunter's voice had seemed in that one instant, it was all gone in the next –

"And she _murdered_ them…the children, the instructors…even _Captain Avery._ "

The temperature of the room had seemed to physically drop by a substantial amount, and Hunter shivered, now standing from the chair and beginning to slowly pace back and forth about the cabin, the urn still remaining in its place upon his desk as Hunter relived the hopelessness, the _dread_ that had flooded over him as he had watched the island burn.

And then his voice had then dropped to a trembling, weak, shakingwhisper –

" _I miss you."_

It was quite possible to hear the pain in that one statement alone, the agony of a thousand lifetimes condensed into that of one accursed individual.

He truly did miss her – and in all the little ways.

Hunter had never truly realized how melodious her voice had been until he could hear it no more save for within his memories, he had never quite appreciated how much _comfort_ she would bring him when she was curled up against his side as she slept until now, now when he would awaken every morning having moved over to one side to make room for her out of instinct, only to find that such was now completelyunnecessary.

His eyes now filling with tears that threatened to spill at the slightest push along with his restraint, Hunter slowly turned to face the urn, as if it was Dangler herself who was perched upon his desk instead, grey eyes wild and unrestrained, yet loving all the same –

Only for his attention and mind to be drawn away (perhaps for his own good) by a sharp knocking at the door.

Knowing that it was likely none other than Madame Vadima herself, Hunter quickly stepped forwards and opened the door of his cabin, standing aside to allow the witchdoctor instructor – the last instructor _alive –_ to enter.

"You wish to speak with me, Madame?"

"Indeed," she replied, and Hunter took note of just how _heavy_ her voice had become.

After all, she had just witnessed the death of hundreds of her students, as well as the destruction of the island that had been a home and haven to the both of them.

They allowed this weight to hang between them in the air for a few moments longer before Vadima finally spoke again.

"We have gathered more of the survivors," She murmured, placing a ringed hand on the edge of his desk in order to lean upon it, "It seems like this is the last of them – I do not see how any other could have evaded the clutches of the Armada past this point."

"What are the numbers?"

Hunter nearly winced at his own words, they sounded so _insensitive –_ but it was much better, in his opinion, than allowing how wounded he truly was to show.

And perhaps Vadima had known as well – for she had not questioned him any further on his own state, instead merely giving him the response that he had requested to receive –

"We have recovered sixty-four ships in the past three days."

"In this location alone?"

"There are _others._ "

 _Others, but we do not know where._ Hunter understood, and did not ask further of that matter.

"And the survivors?"

Hunter did not dare to look up, he did not dare to meet Vadima's eyes – he did not _want_ to know, truly, he did not _want –_

"There are over three hundred wounded."

"And – "

Vadima held up a single hand, and Hunter fell silent.

"I _know_ what you are going to ask – there are _few_ that have remained unharmed, _very_ few, for if they have not sustained wounds of the flesh from the blades and muskets of the clockwork demons, their _minds and hearts_ bear the scars…!"

Vadima's voice had dropped off right then and there, having escalated in intensity to what was almost a _growl_ as her hands curled into dangerously-sharp-nailed fists. Hunter truly could not blame her, however, for it was only natural to be angered so after witnessing the death of hundreds of those whom she and the other instructors had taken _care_ of.

Perhaps it was indeed better to remain silent at these times, Hunter thought, and he sighed heavily, turning to start back towards his chair –

" _Wait."_

When Vadima's hand had darted out without warning and latched onto his wrist, her nails digging into his skin, and Hunter stopped short, a chill creeping up his spine at the frighteningly _dark_ aura that had filled the room without warning.

"Madame…?"

Vadima's grip trembled on his wrist, but rather than falter, it only tightened evermore – and the master witchdoctor had to steel herself before being able to speak again.

"One of the wounded…the wounded that we _recovered…_ claims that she was _attacked._ "

 _Attacked?_

"By the Armada?"

"By the _Grand Fife."_

As if his heart had been ripped from his chest and doused with icy water, Hunter's limbs locked in place, his feet now rooted to the floor, preventing him from _running_ as he so wished to do.

Naturally, Vadima noticed this – and she had likely anticipated it beforehand as well.

"The name is familiar?"

Yes, Hunter would have replied if he could speak – which, at the moment, he most certainly could not, for his tongue was frozen much like his limbs were.

 _You know something about the Fife, right?_

In that one instant, the fear that had temporarily arisen, only to become suppressed once more when that strange witchdoctor had visited, the one with the unruly hair and the golden eyes, returned.

The Fife, the Grand Fife, you must know _something_ about it –

 _The Fife still sails!_

 _LEAVE ME!_

And he had slammed the door in the golden-eyed boy's face, too distracted by his own rushing, pained heart, the memories that replayed before his eyes of his Dangler coming apart in his arms because of Sydney Underhill, because of the _Captain_ of that ship, to fully process the context of the other witchdoctor's words.

His mistake had come back to haunt him, to haunt him in the form of another _victim,_ a victim just like the boy that the witchdoctor had attempted to mention.

 _I cannot hide from it any longer._

"The victim – where is she?"

Vadima had not replied with words. Rather, she glided back to the doorway of the cabin, crooking one sharp-nailed finger to motion for him to follow, which he did immediately – he followed her out of the cabin as she led him out onto the deck of the _Unbroken Victory,_ and across the gangplank resting upon the edge of it connecting to another ship directly next to his.

The surviving ships had all been stationed in this way – tightly pressed, almost touching one another, yet maintaining a safe distance throughout in order to minimize the space that they took up and the risk that they ran of being found by an Armada patrol ship.

It certainly did not seem like the most sturdy or _stable_ plan, but it would do for now – now, when an overwhelming majority of the surviving Resistance members were wounded or in critical condition.

"She is below."

Stepping aside, Vadima allowed Hunter to descend the staircase leading below decks of the ship that they had just arrived on before following him closely, directing him forwards until they had come to the very end of the narrow, short hallway, upon which she had then pointed to the very last door to his left.

He had raised his hand to push open the door, but just a second from actually doing so, Hunter stopped –

Even from here, he could hear her crying.

And it was not just a wail of _sorrow –_ it was of fear, of desperation, of confusion and of panic and everything in between.

 _Just like you,_ a bitter part of his mind reminded him – except he could not afford to let that show now.

But this was no time for hesitation, and so the witchdoctor, having merely placed aside his own torrential emotions for a later, more private moment, stepped forward and pushed open the door.

Within the room, a young girl of approximately fourteen years of age, judging from her appearance, lay on the single cot against the wall, with two other women closer to Hunter's age tending to her – they were likely other master witchdoctors or privateers, Hunter estimated, judging from how skilled they were in the healing arts.

It was something to be thankful for, that they had managed to survive – for the infirmary had been destroyed, along with the nurses that had worked within.

As he approached, the women had scooted slightly away from the cot in order to allow him to look at the girl's condition, remaining only close enough to still be able to treat the numerous _bite wounds,_ many of considerable size, that marred her limbs and the lower half of her throat.

Had Hunter not been told that she claimed to have survived the _Fife,_ he would have believed that she had been the victim of a shark attack.

His eyes locked with her brown ones, and her face paled in fear, her cries halting in that instant in what was almost an eerie manner.

"What is your name?"

Much to his own surprise, Hunter's voice had sounded surprisingly gentle and _soothing_ as he knelt by the girl's cot, taking care not to disturb either of the two acting healers.

She had not responded at first – as was _expected,_ Hunter knew, and he was patient as he waited for her to attempt to swallow her shock, the panic that still dominated and resided within her mind.

"E-Evangeline."

"You're safe here now, Evangeline…" The corners of Hunter's mouth twitched upwards slightly, the soft smile that he did not fully want to show instead displaying itself in his eyes, "I'm a friend – "

"Don't….don't _hurt_ me….!"

Evangeline had barely managed to choke the words out, her voice was so stifled with trembles and strangled sobs – but Hunter had heard her regardless, and he understood. She was frightened, she was scared, and judging by the side of the wounds marking her limbs and throat, she had good reason to be.

"You're safe here, I promise."

His repeated words did sound genuine, genuine and full of concern, regardless of how empty and hollow he still felt on the inside.

 _Hollow, just like the clockworks, just like the soulless puppets who took YOUR Dangler –_

"She _can't…._ she can't come _here,_ can she…?!"

 _She?_

But Hunter had not questioned her – not now. Instead, he had merely reached out, laying his palm upon her forehead with the gentlest touch he could possibly manage.

"No, no, of _course_ she can't… _nothing_ can come here, you see…?"

How he wished that his words were true.

In reality, Hunter knew more than anyone that he and the rest of the survivors of the Armada attack on Skull Island were the equivalent of a bunch of sitting ducks, just waiting to be killed, captured, shot down in the blink of an eye. They could hide well, yes, but the Armada did not tire, they did not sleep, they did not _stop –_

It would only be a matter of time.

In an attempt to distract himself from the oncoming, looming dread that threatened to ensnare him and engulf him entirely, Hunter now looked over Evangeline, over her brown eyes, her dirty chestnut hair, her tanned, olive – toned skin, the sound of the ship creaking as it gently rocked back and forth and the smell of the disinfectant and the _shape_ of her wounds.

 _Bite marks._

This was the second time that Hunter had come to this conclusion within the last five minutes, and yet, he still could not convince himself to fully believe what he was seeing.

The imprints and gouges that had been left behind were deep and bloodied, the flesh around them ragged – as if whatever wretched creature that had caused these had done so with the intent to maul rather than to kill.

Such could most definitely be considered the _crueler_ fate of the two, indeed.

"Evangeline…?"

Hunter had taken care to speak softly, as to not cause panic to the girl, and she turned her head ever so slightly in his direction in reply.

"What…where did you get these from?"

That sentence had _not_ been as strong, as certain and as free of fear as the prior one, and Hunter cursed internally – how was he to lead an entire army of survivors in _this_ state, when he was the most unstable of them all –

"She killed them."

Evangeline's voice had gone deadly quiet, and a chill crawled up Hunter's spine.

"Who – "

"My _brothers._ She _killed_ them."

Drawing in a shaking breath, Evangeline blinked once, slowly, struggling to fight the tremors that had now suddenly appeared once more, either from the fear or the chill of the night air or a combination of both.

"Why?" Hunter now edged closer to her cot, his own panic rising more and more every second, and she flinched away from him, perhaps out of instinct. "Why did she kill them, how – "

However, Hunter had not been _allowed_ to finish his sentence – not before he was roughly _shoved_ away by Evangeline's hand as she curled back against the wall next to the cot, letting out a _deafening_ wail –

"I don't _KNOW!"_

It was only then that Hunter had realized the depth of his own mistake – he had effectively dug up what was, no doubt, the most traumatizing set of memories that could ever possibly be held by a human being: watching a loved one _die_ right before your eyes as you stood powerless, helpless to prevent it or to ease their pain.

Such was an experience, a degree of agony that Hunter knew all too well – and he would have done _anything_ to reverse his actions, to take back his words to the girl as soon as they had left his lips even though he knew full well that such could never be done.

"They didn't _mean_ any harm, they j-just wanted to _explore_ , and…!"

 _And what?_

Hunter did not inquire this _verbally_ of her, of course – it would have caused her to push him away even more. As much as the witchdoctor's heart did hurt for her, she who had experienced something so similar to the instantaneous deterioration of _his_ Dangler, he _needed_ any information that she had regarding the _Grand Fife,_ the ship that _somehow still sailed._

"They… _they got her mad…._ and _she came out."_

"She – "

"It WASN'T their fault!"

Evangeline quickly looked away, ducking her head to hide the tears that threatened to fall from the master witchdoctor.

"She looked _sad,_ sad and _scared,_ and t-they didn't let me g-go into the cabin, but I remember - !"

The girl's voice had broken then, and she held her breath, her chest heaving with silent sobs that she was _attempting_ to will away, but was obviously failing to do so.

Hunter was patient, however – rather than pressing her to remember any specific details that could possibly suggest or confirm his fear, he simply waited from his current position, kneeling on the ground beside the cot with still some distance in between him and the girl.

She would tell them on her own time – and he would wait.

"I remember that she had big, _big_ grey eyes…she was scared, I think, and they went to help her…"

 _That's when she killed them._

The last segment was implied rather than spoken, but the statement held value all the same.

 _Big, grey eyes,_ she had said, and Hunter's own now flew from her face to the bite marks, bandaged and visible alike, covering her body as he scrambled away from her, his own face blanching in nothing short of complete and utter _terror._

It was the same figure that the two young men had come to his very doorstep to ask about, Hunter remembered, the bold young witchdoctor with the unruly hair had pressed him for details about _her,_ about the woman with the big, grey eyes, it was his _very_ worst fear confirmed and made into a reality.

For if what the girl had stated was true, and if the massive bite wounds marring her flesh had been delivered in _the manner_ that he suspected, then it was _true –_ the _Grand Fife_ did indeed sail again, and it was a very _real_ threat.

* * *

 **I hope you enjoyed, and do be sure to leave a review ^^**

 **\- Severina**


	15. Chapter 15

**15: Anarchy in Action**

The meeting of this underground guild now having been concluded, Andrew and Zachary frantically tailed Benjamin Spinnaker, the Marleybonian man striding through the tunnels at an almost impossibly fast pace, all the meanwhile not seeming to pay the slightest attention to exactly how loud his footfalls were. Each sound echoed loudly off of the snaking walls of the seemingly endless tunnels, overlapping upon each other countless times.

Andrew did have to give his cousin credit – this was indeed an ingenious location to assemble and organize a resistance against the tyrannous rule of the Armada clockworks. The musketeer did often wonder just _how_ successful Ben would be now, had he joined Andrew in training on Skull Island – perhaps he would be a privateer, yes, now that he had seen the _leadership_ that he was capable of –

"The island's been taken _entirely?"  
_

"Everything's gone."

Zachary had responded, regardless of the fact that Ben's question was likely aimed at Andrew – after all, the witchdoctor had always had a faster reaction time _and_ thought process.

 _Everything's gone._

It was not entirely true, Zachary did suppose – the structures of Avery's manor and of the offices of the instructors still stood, as did some of the other larger buildings that had managed to survive the inferno that the clockworks had wreaked upon the island.

Rather, every _one_ was gone – either having been executed by the clockwork soldiers or barely alive after a narrow escape, such as he and Andrew were now.

In fact, had it not been for Andrew's meticulously crafted spyglass, they would have likely burned down along with their house and possessions, their remains lost amongst the ashes.

It made him shiver just to think about it.

"They've taken the island as a _colony,_ then…"

Benjamin was speaking more to himself than to either of the other two, his voice hushed so that they could barely hear him as he continued on –

"And you say that they were lead by the Commodore…?"

"Yes," Andrew had answered, his voice now equally as hushed, "But she is now – "

" _Commander,_ that's right…"

The conversation between Andrew and his Marleybonian cousin seemed to carry on like this for some time, with one's speech overlapping the other's sentences, as if they were in some sort of competition to see who could read the furthest into the other's brain, who could make the most connections ahead of time.

It was likely quite a normal occurrence for them – but Zachary, who was not as familiar with the frantic pace that both of their minds seemed to be working at, was merely left to trail the two of them, in a state of complete and utter confusion.

So far, he could only attempt to piece together a few of the things that had been dug up and revealed by this fast-paced conversation – such as the fact that Prima Militus had taken the position of Supreme Commander when she had formerly been Commodore.

Such could only mean one thing –

That something had happened to the previous Supreme Commander, to Kane, the Lord of the clockworks.

They were approaching the tunnel opening that he and Andrew had initially entered from now, the tunnel that led to the workshop that had certainly _seemed_ abandoned upon first glance.

However, they did not continue through or up it – rather, Benjamin then took a sharp left turn, and then another in rapid succession, leading the both of them into what appeared to be a very small, extremely cramped planning chamber of sorts, almost similar to a Captain's cabin on a ship.

The only furniture in this chamber was a single wooden table, its legs obviously uneven judging by now the numerous papers upon it had began to slide more towards one end. From where Zachary was standing now, he could make out some of the images and words upon the papers –

Maps, drawings of the underground layout, diagrams, paragraphs scrawled in a handwriting that was much too indecipherable to easily read.

It was _exactly_ what one would expect to find in a room such as this.

"It won't be safe to go up into the workshop any time soon – I have a sense that the clockworks have already grown suspicious."

Even now, Benjamin refused to raise his voice, his dark brown eyebrows furrowing as he beckoned the both of them closer, likely so that they could hear him and converse far more effectively.

"For now, we may remain here – there is a storage of food rations that is kept safe in another chamber, enough to last several months."

"This network is a _stronghold…_ " It was rather difficult for Andrew to contain the wonder in his voice – obviously, intuition seemed to run heavily in his family tree.

"However, I don't know what will happen after we exhaust those supplies…the Armada's control on the Isle will only grow, and we are completely isolated from the mainland."

His lips thinned into a fine line, and a rather solemn air seemed to fall over all three of them.

Benjamin was quick to divert it, however – as a natural-born leader, he knew more than most that dread often hampered a man's ability to think clearly.

"But enough of that – it is not our immediate problem." He now turned towards both Andrew and Zachary, looking them each directly in the eye. "I want to know _exactly_ what happened during the _Commander's_ attack on Skull Island."

The Marleybonian rustled through the massive stacks of parchment as he said this, eventually withdrawing one that was blank, as well as a quill pen that had been lying on the edge of the table until then, before looking back to them, ready to note as they would dictate.

"Tell me exactly what happened."

Zachary nodded, his own voice coming out much more strained and shaky than he had initially thought it would be.

"We were walking along the edge and there was a – "

"He heard something off in the distance," Andrew cut in, and Zachary let out a sigh of relief (and yet annoyance) at the fact that he did not have to speak any longer, "So I gave him my spyglass, and it turns out that the sounds were coming from the mechanics of an entire Armada fleet."

They had already told him this before, yes, implicitly by stating that the island had been taken, but Benjamin's eyebrows still rose slightly in surprise.

"We did not know how long the fleet had already been there, but we could not exactly pause to think upon this – Zachary and I were forced to escape the island before the clockworks _torched_ it."

Andrew lowered his head, having been unable to hide the stinging note of hatred that had snuck into the last few words of his sentence. As much as he truly _did_ hate the clockworks and as much as this level of attentiveness to his own words was rather unnecessary, the musketeer could not quite prevent it from bothering him, how he had let emotion influence what was supposed to be a _factual_ account.

However, the other two had not seemed to notice whatsoever – or at least they had not _indicated_ that they had.

Rather, Benjamin had continued to hurriedly scribble down nearly illegible sentences and words at an almost inhuman speed, with Zachary's gaze transfixed on the words themselves.

And so Andrew had continued.

Without further hesitation, he had told them how they had escaped off of the Skull Island main docks before they were destroyed, having been alerted to the presence of the Armada beforehand, only to watch from a distance, as the entire Island was set ablaze.

The musketeer had gone to great lengths to describe the inferno in full detail, and his cousin had written every word of how both he and Zachary had, in those few moments, lost everything they had ever considered and associated with home.

It was not _difficult –_ the image had never left his mind, it had not diminished in clarity or detail in the slightest – if he concentrated enough, Andrew could still smell the smoke coiling in the air and spiraling out from the ruins of the buildings, the houses, the bodies of the less fortunate.

"And you immediately set course for Marleybone?"

A pause.

"Not _immediately."_

The point of his quill pen hovering just above the parchment once more, Benjamin raised a single eyebrow in silent inquiry.

"There were others who had escaped – "

"How many?

"I could see around forty or so other Resistance ships – there were more gathering, but we had not remained to find out what the total number was."

"So it's safe to say that the numbers have risen after you had last seem them?"

Andrew nodded.

"I suppose you could say that."

Benjamin set the pen down on the table, allowing for the ink on the parchment to dry as he briefly glanced over what he had just scrawled down.

"More than forty Resistance ships…and all in the same location?"

"From what I could see."

"Were there other locations in which ships had gathered?"

"Not to my knowledge – we did not remain long enough to find out."

Releasing a heavy, burdened sigh, Benjamin sank into the wooden chair positioned against the wall closest to him, his eyes falling shut as he let his head drop into his hands.

"I have a very old friend who lives on that island."

"Describe her to us."

It had been the first time in the last ten minutes that Zachary had chosen to utter a single word, and so it was only natural that both Andrew and Benjamin had been somewhat startled by the mere sound of his voice, as if they had forgotten that he had been present in the room – something that the witchdoctor was quite used to.

"I was able to see some of the survivors that had gathered," he continued, "I might remember her face."

At this, Benjamin had all but leaped out of his chair, an immense burst of energy apparent in his hazel-brown eyes that was rather _uncharacteristic_ of the guild leader.

"You know her?"

"I might – what's she look like?"

"She's got black hair," Benjamin said, and he moved his hands about as he spoke as if it would somehow enhance the image that he was attempting to convey, "about _this_ long, and her eyes are grey – she's maybe as tall as you are, and she's a privateer – I think that's what they call them, the Captains, the leaders and whatnot – "

"Nope."

Zachary shook his head once, and that single action alone seemed to carry more finality than a death sentence.

"No…no _what...?_ "

"I don't remember seeing anyone that looked like that."

Benjamin's face fell, although he had tried to hide his rather outlandish display of emotion at first before relenting in what was most obviously a futile battle.

"You don't…? I could have sworn…I could have sworn that she was well known – her name's Sydney, Sydney Underhill – "

Zachary froze in his place.

The witchdoctor immediately locked eyes with Andrew, only to find that the musketeer wore the same expression of shock that he likely now had on his face.

 _Underhill?!_

"You've never heard of her?"

"Actually, we _have."_

"Do you know where she is, if she's alive…? The attack destroyed everything…does she – "

"It's not _good_ news."

Benjamin stopped short – at that moment, the fear that had grown within his eyes and, no doubt, his _being,_ was more present than ever before.

" _What happened to her…?"_

The two Skull Island pirates quickly exchanged uneasy glances – neither of them wanted to be the bearer of bad news.

"It's been over a year since she's been seen on the island," Zachary said, his voice hesitantly wavering consistently as he spoke, "But there are…rumorsabout what happened to her."

At this point, Benjamin could do nothing else other than continuing to listen – even though the dread within the pit of his stomach expanded more and more with every one of the witchdoctor's words.

"They say she went _crazy._ She killed her own crew – "

" _What?!"_

"As well as Dangler, the most powerful witchdoctor on Skull Island – _Hunter Chamberlain_ saw it himself."

"Impossible!"

"That's what we thought."

" _How_ can – "

"And as if that's not disturbing enough, a swashbuckler on the island got attacked – he was _covered_ in these giant bite wounds, and no matter how we tried to calm him down, he kept screaming that it was the _Fife,_ and that her ship still sailed, even though she _abandoned_ it – "

"Zachary, _enough!"_

Andrew's hand darted out, closing over the witchdoctor's wrist and gently tugging him back before he could cause any _further_ damage to his cousin, who was now utterly distraught beyond all reason.

" _Killed her crew…"_

Falling back against the wall, Benjamin slid down to the floor, his entire body having gone numb with shock and disbelief.

As a child, as the weapon master's apprentice, the friendship that he had formed and shared with Sydney Underhill, the single daughter of one of the highest noble families in Marleybone was an unlikely one. She had escaped from the manor in an act of defiance, only to wind up lost in the alleyways – an event that could have quickly ended in a rather frightening manner, had Benjamin not found her first and led her back.

He had not expected to see her again, no, but sure enough, her appearances to the alleyways in which the shop was located became more and more frequent, and they were _deliberate –_ at first, he had been frightened for her, but over time, he soon grew to appreciate her face, framed by her forcefully curled black hair and defined brow.

He appreciated her company, her desire to know more about quite literally _everything,_ and she had taken a fascination to his work, often times calling it an art. It was something that he could not have been more thankful for, and to this very day, Benjamin still considered her to be his greatest motivator.

And he had just been told that she had gone _mad_.

"And that's not all – "

"Zachary, now's not the best time."

"Then when _is?"_

Andrew sighed in defeat – the witchdoctor had a good point. Marleybone and Skull Island had been overrun by the Armada, and the clockwork soldiers would only continue to expand their rule, refusing to cease their efforts until the entire Spiral was underneath the command of _Prima Militus._

Attempting to lessen the usual brash nature of his tone, Zachary turned to Benjamin once again –

"There's been an attack recently, on the Island – right before the Armada took over."

Benjamin looked up, his eyebrows raised slightly in inquiry, and the witchdoctor took this as a sign to continue.

"Some swashbuckler came back to the island in a state of complete _hysteria._ He was screaming his head off and swatting away everyone who tried to help him – he was covered in these massive bite marks, you see, and – "

" _Bite marks?!"_

"Yeah, as if a storm shark tried to make a meal out of him or something. Anyways, Andrew and I went to investigate, to try and find out what was going on and all – and that's when he started saying the name of her ship, _The Grand Fife."_

"What's so strange about that?" Benjamin could not stifle how his dread was growing, how it was expanding by the second -

"He was claiming that _it_ attacked him. And as if that's not strange enough, Chamberlain said that she _abandoned_ her ship before running into the Tunnels – "

"Which is where she...?"

 _Which is where she killed her crew?_

"Exactly."

"…This doesn't make _any_ sense. If she walled herself into the Tunnels and…no longer has a crew…then it'd be impossible to sail a ship of that size."

"That's what we thought, and that's where we hit our dead end."

Stepping forwards, Andrew extended his hand to his cousin, pulling him to his feet as he slowly recovered from the shock of what they had just told him of the recent takeover of the island as well as of the depravity of his closest childhood friend.

"You knew Sydney a lot better than we ever did – what do _you_ think happened?"

It was an honest inquiry, yes, but the hint of surrender that had crept into Andrew's voice was enough to indicate that he did not truly expect an answer, that he was shooting blindly for information regarding rumors that had only been confirmed by one eyewitness. And given that Hunter Chamberlain had not exactly been in an _ideal_ state of mental soundness when they had last seen him, it was quite possible to doubt the validity of his statements.

Such information was crucial, and Andrew did not dare to say this aloud for fear that others within the tunnels would overhear, but no confirmation was needed to know that the other two were aware of this as well.

If, by some miraculous chance, these rumors had been fabricated and Sydney and her crew were _still alive,_ then reconnecting them back with the rest of the Skull Island survivors was absolutely essential. As one of the most natural and talented privateers in the history of the island itself, obtaining her alliance would double the chances of survival, maybe even _triple,_ perhaps.

"I honestly don't _know_ what happened – "

Andrew sighed, his slight disappointment reflected on Zachary's face as well – but truly, what had they been expecting - ?

"But there's only _one_ way to find out."

* * *

 **I hope you enjoyed, and be sure to leave a review!**

 **\- Severina**


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16: Convinced**

 _There you are…!_

 _NO - !_

There were no words to describe the sheer _terror_ that had struck through Presidos Decimus when he had heard that voice, shrill and hoarse, with traces of a melodious quality that had faded long ago – and, panic taking over his processor and frame once more, he bolted forwards, nearly falling down the steep staircase as he wrenched the door shut behind him and stumbled down, colliding with the wall when he was unable to stop the momentum.

Rather confused and perhaps rather unnerved as well, the members of the Polarian crew, who were also present in the narrow hallway, whirled around to face him, only to find out that he had _continued_ running, running in the direction of the cabin that he had been kept in just a few hours earlier. It was obvious that he had been greatly shocked or provoked by some force, as while Armada clockworks were known for their fine internal tuning, Decimus could barely hold himself upright. His legs shaking as he ran, he had run into the walls on either sides of him multiple times already.

And without further ado, the members of the crew, unintentionally fronted by Vladimir himself, ran after him.

"Decimus, _wait – "_

"She's _here!"_

" _Who?!"  
_

However, the Polarian's second shouted question had not received an answer save for the slamming of the door, followed by several scraping noises that led Vladimir, as well as the rest of the crew, to conclude that he had barricaded himself within Vladimir's own cabin.

And judging by how they could barely get the door to budge open, even with their _combined_ efforts, he had done quite a good job at it as well – after all, clockworks were programmed with extraordinary engineering and mathematical intelligence, and he had likely assembled some impossible blockade of sorts – even in a state of panic.

This was one of the many things that Vladimir had always admired about the clockworks – and also one of the many reasons that he had brought Decimus back with him rather than ending him there, in the frozen wastelands.

He did _not_ want to miss a chance to observe this sheer source of intelligence up _close._

Sighing, the Polarian scout now backed away from the door in resignation, motioning for his comrades to do the same.

"It's no use – he won't open the door no matter _what_ any of us say."

"He does not _fear_ us?"

"Clockworks cannot _fear,_ they are emotionless creatures – "

Murmurs of agreement now came from the Polarian crew, revealing how much they truly discontented to having the clockwork marksman on board – if they had it _their_ way, Vladimir knew, they would have ended him as soon as they had first seen him.

"But they are _very_ smart. Smart enough to know when a situation is too dangerous to directly confront – and that's exactly what we're making it out to be right now."

He received less of a response this time – as was expected, he thought, for it was much more difficult to admit to one's own misconception and misunderstanding.

"Then what do you _suggest_ we do, hmm?"

It was rather difficult for Vladimir to see who had spoken, given the extremely dim lighting of the hallway and the dense cluster of crewmembers, but this did nothing to disguise the cynicism laced within these words.

"We _wait._ He will speak in time."

"You are being too _sympathetic – "_

"I am being logical!"

"You're going _soft,_ Vladimir, this soldier is not a living being _,_ he was built and made to KILL US!"

"ENOUGH!"

The Captain had then proceeded to _bellow_ at them all for their unruliness – as to how _they_ were weak and foolish for letting something as this tear their camaraderie apart beyond all recognition, and other such things that one would expect to hear from a leader – such things that the crewmembers only half-listened to, the other portion of their minds filled with fear and uncertainty regarding the whole predicament.

"Dismissed!"

And with that final word, the crew dispersed, leaving Vladimir standing alone before the barricaded door of his cabin, in the suffocating silence. He listened, as if sifting through the air for any sort of sound whatsoever, only to find none.

He considered calling for Decimus again, on the off chance that he might respond – however, in the end, the Polarian scout decided against it, for it would only cause him to demonize him and his crew even _more_.

No – instead, he would wait until he _voluntarily_ unlocked the door. After all, Vladimir was the only one who could properly treat the enormous wounds spanning over his torso, and he would cease to function without proper healing, given how his systems were so exposed to numerous outside elements.

Leaning back against the wall of the narrow hallway, Vladimir waited.

He did not bother to keep track of the time – that would only make this dragged-out wait longer, he knew. Waiting for a clockwork, a supposedly emotionally _devoid_ being to _calm down_ was the last thing that he had expected when he had brought Decimus on board – but as it seemed now, this was a rather unusual case.

There was something different about this one – and Vladimir was willing to wager that it had something to do with the oddly-pattered _scar_ upon Decimus' neck. He had almost asked him about it too – that was, until the storm had hit them, full force, and thrown the both of them all around the cabin, forcing them to cling to the walls, the furniture, each other, _anything_ to keep from being smashed and crushed by the sheer force of it all.

It was a rather annoying revelation, how he had been so close to finding out – but there was nothing he could do at this point.

Nothing to do other than to _wait –_ for he had a _lot_ to learn about this particular clockwork soldier.

And so he sat in silence for what seemed like an eternity – that was, until a series of scraping sounds could once again be heard from within the cabin and the door opened just _ever_ so slightly.

"The others have left?"

"Yes – they're gone."

Nothing could have described how relieved the Polarian scout was – for Decimus and his computational abilities were the _one_ chance that Vladimir and his crew had of fixing their ship and getting out of this accursed abyss.

Rather than asking Decimus if it was safe for him to enter (rather ironically, as it was _his_ own cabin to begin with), Vladimir simply took a slow step towards the door, raising both of his hands to indicate that he was not armed. He could barely see the clockwork marksman through the crack in the door, but he could tell that Decimus was watching his every movement, analyzing him with a level of detail that no living being could ever hope to match.

There was a stillness that seemed to stop time itself – and then Decimus pushed open the door the rest of the way, a standard military dagger gripped tightly in his right hand. Obviously, Vladimir had not thought to _fully_ disarm him when he had first brought him back to the ship.

"The others are gone, it's just me, I promise."

The Polarian chose each and every one of his words with care – there was no telling how they would be interpreted by an over-analytical processor that was clearly on overdrive.

However, he had likely chosen correctly, as Decimus had only paused for a moment before stepping back and allowing Vladimir to enter, although he still clutched the blade, which could be driven into the other's chest at _any_ moment. Again, Vladimir held up his hands, looking directly into the empty sockets in his mask where there should have been eyes.

"I'm not armed, I swear by it."

Decimus' grip loosened and the dagger clattered to the floor, although the clockwork marksman did not yet make any other movement.

It was several minutes more before he _dared_ to ask the question that he had shouted at the marksman when he had first bolted down below decks in a frenzy of what Vladimir wanted to call fear, but was uncertain to.

"Decimus, _who were you running from?"_

And just like that, the marksman grew tense once more, frozen in his place, not even able to bend down and snatch the dagger off of the floor like his twitching fingers longed to do. However, he still had not answered the vital question –

"Is there another on this ship that my crew and I do not yet know about?"

Again, Decimus was lost for words.

He _wanted_ to speak, Vladimir could tell, but it was _what_ to speak that he could not quite conclude.

One last attempt.

"Who is _she?"_

" _Please."_ Decimus' reply had an almost _choked_ sound to it, as if it had been a great struggle to force that word out alone, and his right hand now flew up to that strange marking on his neck from earlier, long, thin fingers brushing over the outline of it as he shook where he stood.

Vulnerable, Vladimir realized – he looked so vulnerable, the top half of his uniform having been stripped from his torso to reveal how thin he truly was, the grey-white color of the flesh of the clockworks making him appear more like the corpse of a dysfunctional marionette than a being intended to be humanoid.

" _Do not let her take me again."_

The Polarian quickly glanced at the door, ensuring once again that there was no one _overhearing_ this before turning back to the marksman, clearly bewildered. He was not about to say that this ship was safe, or even that they were _alone_ in this infernal abyss, for he himself did not truly know – but if Decimus was to be of any use to them whatsoever, he would have to be pulled out of this state by one way or another.

"Decimus, I do not know _who_ you are speaking of – _who is she?"_

This was most definitely not what Vladimir had expected when it came to interacting with a clockwork, an artificial intelligence that _learned_ and _accumulated information._

Decimus himself did not know how to respond either – he did not know who to trust, or who to reveal what to in order to best guarantee his own survival. Was this scavenger not one of those imperfect beings that the Armada was to eradicate, was he not a native of the land of Polaris, who harbored a deeply-bred hatred for the clockwork soldiers of Valencia? It was all _true,_ and yet Vladimir had not brought harm to him – in fact, he had done just the opposite.

Just the opposite of what his own kind had done to him.

It was now programmed instinct and _loyalty_ against reasoning – and in the end, reason won.

" _The Resistance calls her 'Dangler.'"_

Vladimir had just barely been able to hear his words – but the moment that he moved closer to the marksman, Decimus had backed several steps away from him, the trust that he had formed now hanging on by little more than a few fraying threads.

 _Dangler._

It did not sound like a name that any sane mother would give to her infant daughter. Rather, Vladimir's first initial thoughts were of a spider – a tiny, gangly, eight-legged creature swinging to and fro from a strand of silk as the mummified carcasses of its prey rotted behind it.

Vladimir shivered. He had never particularly favored spiders.

His eyes now dropped to Decimus' bandaged torso, the slight darkening indicating that the blood had already seeped through the undermost layer – thinking about the extensiveness of the marksman's wound was not any less unpleasant, but it did offer somewhat of an opportunity.

Wordlessly, the Polarian scavenger reached out, wrapping one hand onto Decimus' wrist and feeling him tense as if prepared to _fight_ before pulling him forwards so that both of them were sitting on the edge of the box bed. Strangely enough, Decimus did not question him – but perhaps that was because his processor was based upon logic, and he had by now realized that his best chance of survival lay with Vladimir himself.

"I need to assess your wounds."

Without speaking further, Vladimir cautiously unraveled the tightly-wound bandages from the marksman's thin torso, taking great care not to further agitate the wound in any way that could potentially cause it to re-open – and was almost immediately surprised.

He did not know _what_ he had expected to find, but as of now, the enormous, deep stab wound was now considerably smaller than before. Patches of a darker grey color, accompanied by areas of rust, now surrounded the outline of it, as if serving as a shadow how large and near-fatal it had once been.

 _Their healing process, perhaps?_

Vladimir could not be certain, of course, but it did seem likely.

Decimus did not put up any resistance as Vladimir cleaned and bound the stab wound, winding the bandages tightly around his torso – and noting the _scars_ spanning the marksman's back as he did so. There must have been over a hundred of them, he concluded, and they were jagged and darkened raised lines of flesh-metal, crisscrossing over each other from one edge of Decimus' back to another, allowing the Polarian to imagine just _how_ it must have felt to have some evil weapon of sorts rip through his flesh in such a manner.

It also raised the question of the means through which Decimus had obtained them, for these were not ordinary battle scars – such as traces of slashes from swords or even gunshot wounds. Rather, it almost seemed like he had been _flogged,_ even though Vladimir had never seen lash marks this deep.

It was _cruel,_ even to a clockwork.

"Decimus…how did – "

"It was her – she… _did_ this to me."

His voice was strained, nearly – as if even these vague words had been difficult to say, to force out, and at first, Vladimir had been left just as clueless as before.

And then he had remembered _what_ Decimus had been shouting as he fled from the deck and barricaded himself within the cabin with a _fear_ that he had not thought was possible for a clockwork soldier to experience.

 _She's here!_

"Dangler?"

This time, Decimus could not run or even back away – Vladimir's hands were still working at the bandages, binding the massive stab wound tightly so that it would not re-open, as he had already caused it to do once. He could only nod to confirm the Polarian's inquiry, for indeed, it _was_ her. Even now, Decimus found it difficult to force himself to say her name.

 _Perhaps it is better. Perhaps it is reliable._

"She…she captured me. Years ago."

"And she…?!"

 _She tore you apart?!_

"A-affirmative."

Even now, just _thinking_ about her even when he had seen her _die,_ his frame tensed and his speech halted.

Then again, he had _heard_ her –

"She left this…upon me as well."

Raising a single hand, Decimus traced the outline of the marking upon his throat, his fingers _visibly_ shaking as he did so, and Vladimir was in _awe -_ perhaps he was terrified as well, for never had he imagined that an emotionless _puppet_ soldier could have possibly endured such cruelty and still _remain._

"It's her symbol?"

A nod in reply.

"She…she uses it to _find me._ "

 _To find me, to see me, to take me back again-!_

Vladimir could practically hear what the marksman was thinking and experiencing and yet was unable to put into words – which was expected, given that clockworks were not beings that were built for or accustomed to the emotions and reactions of mortal beings.

And yet, they were still being forced upon him by this woman, this _Dangler_ who was obviously guilty of unspeakable cruelty.

If she has done this to a clockwork, Vladimir thought, God help any living being that falls into her hands.

Amongst stuttered, halted sentences and many fragmentations, Decimus did eventually manage to tell the Polarian of his capture – and of the many months he had spent held captive by _her_ before he was finally recovered, and then how he had discovered shortly after that his removal from the island did not necessarily mean the end of his torment.

Even now, the end seemed nowhere in sight.

Decimus himself did not know how he had expected the scavenger to react – perhaps with shock upon his rushed and intentionally vague description of the methods used against him, yes, but not this quiet understanding and comprehension that was being displayed before him now as Vladimir only nodded, his expression growing increasingly solemn.

"I have heard of others like her – those who use this magic and command the forces of the otherworld," He said thoughtfully, his blonde brow now furrowed as he looked off into a corner of the room, more bewildered than ever before, and Decimus felt that same overdose of alertness that he had learned to call _fear_ overtake him.

"There are… _more_ like her…?!"

"Indeed, there are many who command a similar power – but they are not _like her_. To my knowledge, they are formally trained, and they do not use their talents for… _sadistic practices."_

This, of course, would make his tormentor one out of many – not because of her raw, terrifying power, but because of her tainted, sickening motives. This knowledge alone brought about a sense of stability with it, something that Decimus did _desperately_ need, and his form visibly relaxed.

"Now follow me."

Slowly, Vladimir stood, and Decimus followed – but not before reaching down and retrieving his partially folded, bloodstained jacket from the ground, where it likely had landed after being tossed around along with everything else in the room during the hellish storm. Even though the dark blue fabric was most obviously stained, it would still serve to protect his internal systems from the chill within the air – after all, there was no such thing as _too much precaution_ in these scenarios.

He did not want to meet the same fate that the Commodore Prima had, as noble as she was.

Silently, in what was very much a _reserved_ manner, the clockwork marksman allowed himself to be led out of the cabin, down the hallway, and into what almost seemed to be a control room that was just below the helm of the ship. It was most obviously assembled from various different materials, with several compass-like dials to indicate coordinates and a system of piping to re-direct the heat generated by what was almost certainly a furnace of sorts.

Decimus had not been expecting this – but then again, what _could_ he expect? Surely, the gear systems of the Valencian ships would not have lasted in a permanent Polarian environment – which did explain the need for a furnace in order to ensure both the crew and the ships' survival. Rather, it seemed more similar to the steam-powered ships of Cool Ranch, the engineering of which Decimus had programmed knowledge of, despite never having actually _seen_ one.

This was not a standard Polarian ship – it had many alterations, modifications, and crudely crafted advancements made to prolong the amount of time that they could be sailing without falling prey to the harshness of the Polarian skies. After all, they were _scavengers,_ and such was important if they wanted to avoid detection by any and all.

It was almost as if Vladimir could sense this – for he knew, as part of the crew that had lived on and with this ship for over a decade, that there was none other in the Spiral that was _quite_ the same as the _Sapfir._

"Come – I can show you the damage done, and how they effect our _changes._ "

And with what was vaguely similar to reluctance, Decimus agreed.

For once, he was at a loss of technological knowledge – and given that his survival depended on his ability to _fix_ this ship, he had a _lot_ to learn.


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17: Prima's Regime**

Never had there been a day so bleak upon Skull Island.

The sun had just risen, and yet, none of its warmth could be felt by the prisoners – the _hundreds_ of prisoners that were bound in chains, by their ankles and by their wrists, in a single long line behind the massive gallows that had been constructed just before the life fountain in the very center of Avery's Court.

How ironic it was, that these numerous men, women, and _children_ alike were all to meet their swift, painful death directly beside a source of healing.

Unlike how it had been during the massacre that had resulted in the death of Horace Avery and the takeover of Skull Island by the clockwork Armada, there were no cries, no shrieks or pleas for mercy. Rather, there was only the dull, metallic sound of the chains of the prisoners scraping across the cobblestones as the endless line was moved forwards, ten by ten.

Ten more to be shoved up the stairs to the wooden platform by the two marines flanking the structure, ten more nooses strung upon the frame and tied around ten more necks. A single lever pulled, and then there were ten more corpses to be collected and carried away. It was all very methodical, mechanical, everything proceeding as intended.

Clasping her gloved hands behind her back, the Supreme Commander looked on.

Prima stood upon the very top of the staircase leading up to the _fortress_ that was once the manor of Captain Horace Avery, flanked by two enormous dragoons, her tall, unyielding image and posture the very epitome of royalty.

Ten bodies removed, ten more marched up.

Are you prepared to commit genocide, she had been asked –

And the answer came now – indeed so, she was.

After all, genocide had a true connotation, a true impact only to the humans and the mortal beings – and although she did _understand_ this impact and the reaction that the mortals had, to her and to all other clockwork soldiers, it was simply another word conveying a meaning, as it was supposed to do.

The goal was to eradicate imperfection, and this was, as of now, the most effective means of doing so. Although Prima did indeed realize that a mortal leader in her place would have most likely felt some semblance of remorse, she could only ever _realize –_ never could she feel.

Prima had remained for a few minutes more, simply watching, overseeing, as the ruler of an empire was meant to do, before turning wordlessly and retreating to the manor, the sound of another ten necks snapping against another ten nooses following her.

The dragoons that had been flanking her atop the staircase continued to do so, accompanying the Supreme Commander to the front door of the manor-turned-fortress. Prima had dismissed them then, having been received by the Captains Servus Albus and Servus Carbo, her familiar subordinate officers from their time of creations. The double doors swung shut behind her as she moved over to the large desk within the main room, seating herself behind it, having maintained her air of elegance, of _pride_ and of dignity throughout.

Yet, there was most definitely a _weight_ accompanying her – an invisible load, a burden of sorts that rested upon her shoulders.

Even as a Commodore, Prima had never been an ordinary clockwork – something that the Captains of the White and Black Cadres knew all too well.

Perhaps _understanding_ the meaning of _genocide,_ a word that had such a mournful, heavy, grievous denotation, did have an effect. After all, with the understanding that she had of such a wide spectrum of emotions, it was not that far-fetched to wonder if she ever unintentionally mimicked them.

Although the unpredictability that came with the mortal beings was seen as flawed amongst the clockworks, there were no denying its advantages –

And there was also no point in even attempting to understand the Supreme Commander's logic, given how different and expansive it truly was.

"Supreme Commander – "

"Albus."

Her single word of acknowledgement was short and clipped, and it made the both of them consider the possibility of her affliction much more seriously.

"Everything has gone according to your plan?"

A pause, and in that moment, Albus' predictive statistics had failed him – he did not know what to _expect._

"Affirmative."

She turned her head away, as in contemplation, and Albus could not help but wonder what _exactly_ she was thinking, calculating, concluding –

"Aside from the _execution process,_ there are other matters to be _discussed,"_ she now said, her authoritative, concise tone back in place as she moved a stack of meticulously written reports off to one side, clearing off the map that laid within the center of the desk, "such as the location of the Resistance patron."

"You are referring to Hunter Chamberlain?"

"Affirmative – as well as the witchdoctor instructor, _Vadima._ I take it by the silence of the scouting squadrons that there has not been any sight of them yet?"

"None, Commander."

This time, it was Carbo who had spoken, the voice of the marine Captain much deeper than that of his white-coated counterpart.

Although Prima did not show any external signs of frustration – which was only expected, as she was a _clockwork,_ despite her immense understanding – it was nearly possible to _hear_ her processor whirring.

There was no telling how many had escaped with them, she knew – and although she did not say such out loud, Prima was able to tell that her two officers were aware of such as well.

Yes, there was no telling who had escaped, how _many_ had escaped – and if the Resistance, in fact, still _remained,_ even if they were only a fraction of what they once had been, thus making it all the more important to find both Chamberlain and Vadima as _soon_ as possible – to fully secure the Armada's hold on what had once been the pirate haven.

"Permission to speak, Commander – "

Again, Carbo had spoken, and Prima could not help but wonder if Albus had remained silent for any particular reason.

"Granted, Captain."

"In order to increase the efficiency of the search, Supreme Commander, it is my suggestion that the security patrols upon the island itself are used to strengthen the scout forces in the skyways."

Prima leaned back in the chair, interlocking her long, thin fingers together.

"Such would be unwise."

"Commander, I must – "

"We have just arrived here, Captain," Prima quipped, now rising and almost _gliding_ over to the window, where she could see the mass hangings, still ongoing – ten by ten, ten by ten – "And we do not know how _many_ of them there are left."

 _Them._

The Resistance, the numbers that she could not count, no matter how many bodies were piled up in the court at the end of the day.

"I will not relinquish the safety – I will not _risk the function_ of the officers and soldiers that we have here now for the sake of _exploring_ one possibility out of many _."_

It was as if the unseen weight that had been resting upon her frame when she had first walked into the newly established Armada base had been transferred to her words – for she held _all_ of them within her hands, all of their functions – for _all_ of her soldiers.

Perhaps she was not a mortal leader who _inspired_ her troops through invigorating speeches and rallying cries to battle, but she was responsible nevertheless – and perhaps even more so, for unlike the forces of mortal beings, her soldiers would never defect, they would _never_ surrender – and they would carry out their orders until _the very end._

Thus, it was her word that would determine how their world would turn. Regardless of how long Prima had been in position as a Commodore, how esteemed and battle-worn and _revered_ she was, both by her soldiers and those of her enemies, she had _never_ before held _this_ much power within her hands.

Although the high, curled collar attached to her long, brocaded coat would prevent her from seeing behind her if she turned her head, she could still sense the presence of her two subordinates, her two Captains, directly behind her, on either side – intending to protect her and serve her as they were made to do.

 _I will not risk the safety –_

 _I will not risk the function._

It was what she had said when she knelt before the Supreme Commander Kane after receiving the news that she was to attack and subdue Skull Island with the forces of the white Cadre alone – that without their counterparts, their chances of success would be much lower, that their vulnerabilities would be exposed.

Nevertheless, she had still lost – _I will not sacrifice the security of the fortress,_ was his reply.

And how _similar_ it had seemed to the reply that _she_ had given to Carbo in regards to strengthening the scouting squadrons just moments ago. It was nearly enough to make her _reconsider_ her decision and conclusion, all factors accounted for – but that was before she once again remembered that they were amidst the ruins of the pirate haven itself, without knowing how many numbers the opposition still had.

No, this was _not_ like the time that she had stood before the Supreme Commander, doubting the safety of her own forces – for Kane himself had been safely hidden in Valencia, in the heart of the clockwork Armada's power. She was stationed _here,_ for the time being, in much more unknown and _dangerous_ circumstances. If there were to be any chance whatsoever of weakening the security forces of the island, it would be once they had more evidence as to the location of the two escaped witchdoctors.

Even though a similar decision was what had landed both her and Servus Albus in the clutches of the Resistance – and more specifically, more _ironically,_ as captives of the very witchdoctor that they were hunting now.

He had not spoken in quite a while, she noticed.

And perhaps it was due to this – the memories associated with this island, this place, the half-destroyed, empty manor atop the hill that was still visible in the distance. She could not blame him, especially considering that she had already seen a much more _severe_ case of this before, in the instance of the Armada marksman Presidos Decimus. In any case, it had made him grow further apart from the marine Captain that was supposed to be his counterpart, his "brother" of sorts.

Having gained such a knowledge of what the cruelest humans were capable of, and perhaps a shadow of what the madwoman _Dangler_ had _done_ to the now-missing marksman, he was not able to act, to process, to conclude as was intended. It was an innocence of sorts that Albus had lost, and that Prima herself had lost ages ago, but that Carbo still retained.

For now, that was – Prima could only place forth her utmost effort to make sure that it _remained_ that way.

 _Perhaps this is how a mortal mother feels._

No doubt, that conclusion had resulted from her processor more than once before, and this time would certainly not be the last. It was fitting, in the way – here she stood, the _matriarch_ of the most powerful, deadliestforce in the spiral, the actions and _fates,_ perhaps, of thousands upon thousands of soldiers resting with her.

The loud slamming of the door against the interior wall as it was shoved open rather unceremoniously was enough to make Prima turn around in the direction of the noise, the gold-trimmed edge of her coat sweeping the ground as she did so. A dragoon was standing in the doorway, just barely able to fit through the frame of the door given his towering height, identical to the other soldiers built identical to him. However, this was not what caught the Supreme Commander's attention – rather, it was the corpse of the pirate that he was carrying, one that was hanged no more than a few minutes ago, seeing as how his neck was very clearly broken.

"State your purpose, soldier."

Prima quickly waved away the guards at the doorway outside that had turned towards the dragoon upon instinct – likely due to the fact that he was taking a _pirate_ into the temporary fortressof the Supreme Commander – before stepping towards the soldier with caution.

"Armada Dragoon Custos Crassus, Supreme Commander – _for the glory of the Armada."_

"Enough," Prima clipped, quickly cutting him off, "what is _this?"_

She, of course, was referring to the pirate's corpse – there were thousands of others like him, with snapped necks and a deep hatred of the clockworks – obviously, she reasoned, there was something different, something _important_ about this one.

"I was instructed to bring this one here, Commander, due to abnormalities."

"Abnormalities? Were there complications in his execution?"

"Negative, Commander – perhaps it would best be determined under your examination."

Falling silent, Prima quickly glanced over the cadaver – although these were unusual circumstances, bringing the corpse of a pirate into the base for examination, she trusted her soldiers and the impeccability of their computational abilities. She was one of them, after all.

"Set him down there," Prima said, motioning to the long, wooden table at the side of the room, which the two Captains quickly worked to move away from the wall, "I shall see to it."

"For the glory of the Armada, Commander," Crassus had said once, setting the corpse of the unknown male pirate upon the table before exiting, the doors slamming shut behind him, letting silence reign once more.

 _Due to abnormalities._

Cautiously approaching the corpse upon the table, Prima took in every detail of the motionless cadaver, making as many calculations by external observation as she possibly could before she would be forced to examine him more _closely._

He was certainly young, Prima determined, as his face did not have any trace of a beard or the chiseled jawline of a grown man – she estimated his age to be eighteen, at the very most, and judging by his agile build and the emptied knife belt still strapped around his waist, he was most likely a swashbuckler, one of the quick and agile close-ranged fighters trained by the Valencian traitor _Morgan Lafitte._

Internally, Prima wondered if Lafitte still remembered her name, her visage – for even though she had been to the Island no more than a few times throughout the course of her function, she did indeed have knowledge that there were textbook segments written about her method of commandeering.

Such was what came with a long lifetime of nothing but battle and servitude in the name of the Valencian Armada, she supposed – even though she had only been captured once and had remained functioning until this day, information about her had still been gathered, recorded, and distributed.

Now focusing back upon the corpse of the pirate before her, Prima stepped closer – unlike mortal beings, disgust or fear did not burden or hinder her, and she looked over his snapped, bent neck without a second thought. Rather, it was the bandages that absolutely _covered_ his arms and legs, many of them bloodstained. Prima had concluded them to be merely battle wounds sustained before his capture – as it was most likely that he had been seized from the infirmary, given that most humans injured to this extent were not able to move, let alone fight.

Opting to keep the black, gold-embroidered gloves upon her hands, Prima carefully slipped her fingers into the knot holding the length of bandages wrapped upon the entirety of his left arm – his clothing had been torn away from his lower legs and forearms, allowing her easier access – and unraveling them, gingerly peeling the gauze and cotton away from an _enormous_ blood-encrusted wound, and Prima nearly drew back.

But the _size_ of the wound was not what had caught her off-guard – it was the _shape_ of it.

Rather than a burn from a musket or pistol or a stab wound from a blade of some sorts, it was in the shape of a horrendous _bite,_ as if a storm shark, which Prima _knew_ roamed the skyways surrounding the island, had taken a bite out of him. Unraveling the rest of the bandages around his limbs revealed countless more of these, all of the same shape and depth, only confirmed Prima's suspicion that he had been mauled by something _vicious._

However, it was _not_ a storm shark.

Upon closer inspection of the tattered, bloody folds and ribbons of flesh, Prima had found no teeth, no fragments of bone – which the storm sharks, having a countless and disposable supply, would almost always leave behind. Yet, even with _that many_ bites upon the corpse of the pirate, she had found absolutely _none._

 _Something else, another creature –_

It was then that Prima was interrupted from her thoughts, her analysis yet _again,_ but this time, it was by some dreadful noise _outside_ of the fortress, and Prima quickly withdrew from where she had been standing, now returning to the window –

Only to see two Armada marines dragging a screaming, _hysterical_ pirate, obviously having come from the docks judging by how the pirate was absolutely _covered_ in sand –

And strangely enough, he was also missing one leg.

This was a _recent_ wound, most certainly, Prima concluded, for even as he was dragged, as his wrists were clapped in irons and chained, the ragged stump of flesh that had once been his right leg was splattering the cobblestones below him with blood.

But that was not all that had caught the Supreme Commander's attention – in addition to his missing leg, the pirate, who was by now _pleading_ for mercy and struggling furiously against the grip of the marines (although it was a futile effort), he was _also_ covered in what seemed to be unusually large bite wounds – identical to the ones upon the corpse that laid just a few feet behind Prima now.

 _Recurring attacks?_

Wordlessly, Prima listened – and even through the doors of the base, through the thick glass of the windows, she could _hear_ the words that the imprisoned pirate was _screaming._

" _THE FIFE - ! SOMEONE HELP ME, PLEASE, GOD, IT STILL SAILS, THE FIFE, IT'S STILL THERE - !"_

If Prima thought that she had been struck speechless before, it was _nothing_ compared to now – now as she made the _connection_ between the pirate brought to her and the convict just outside, as she realized that these were made by the same unknowncreature –

That had _something_ to do with a ship, a _pirate_ ship.

The next course of action was clear – although Horace Avery had run much too large of a sanctuary, a haven to document every _person,_ for they would come and go so quickly, they _had_ recovered a catalog of ships upon inspecting the manor shortly after Avery had been defeated. Gesturing once to Albus, she summoned the musketeer Captain to her.

"Find the catalog – the one that lists the names of every ship built and sailed from this Island. A list is to be made of the information of any ship with the word _Fife_ in its name."

"Understood, Commander."

Albus had saluted and retreated, leaving Prima to process this information once more – for as of now, it was possible that the Armada had a much bigger problem on their hands than she had initially thought.

* * *

 **I hope you enjoyed, and do be sure to leave a review!**

 **\- Severina**


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18: Rediscovery**

Although the _Knave's Voyage_ was a rather worn frigate, Andrew had found that offering to let Ben commandeer it had been a surprisingly good decision. His cousin, having been the leader of an arms guild for who _knew_ how long, was rather skilled in sailing, as well as in many other aspects of leadership.

Earning a resounding response of loyalty and commitment to the men within his underground guild, it had been rather simple for Ben to divide them up into multiple divisions. Having hidden several other ships from being destroyed by the clockworks that had overrun the Isle of Fetch, they had assembled a tiny fleet of their own, using just enough ships to transport them.

As of now, the nine ships, with the _Knave's Voyage_ at the very lead, were preparing to dock at the Isle of Doom, the supposed location at which Sydney Underhill had murdered her crew and sealed herself away, and Andrew would have been a fool to deny his own anxiety.

What would they find?

The bodies of Samantha Hawkins and Jewel Zabra strung up, on display, or perhaps mutilated so that they could no longer be recognized?

Would they find Sydney herself stricken beyond belief with every known form of madness, foaming at the mouth and wildly swinging an axe, her hands still red and stained from the blood of the slaughtered?

Or would it be something else entirely?

"By the _Spiral,_ you're tense!"

" _Aagh!"_ Spinning around abruptly, Andrew flailed, nearly knocking Zachary – who had snuck up behind him – down as he did so. "I _told_ you not to do that!" The witchdoctor shrugged in response, his total lack of regard consistent with the rest of his general outlook and demeanor.

"You _scared?"_

Andrew scoffed.

" _No._ I just don't see the appeal in the thought of, well – "

"Dead bodies?"

Andrew sighed.

"Mangled, dead, _gruesome, disgusting –_ "

Rolling his eyes, Andrew shoved Zachary out of the way, climbing the staircase to the helm, where Ben was currently standing at the wheel, carefully guiding the ship within the narrow lanes of the skyway. By far more _serious_ than Zachary, Ben acknowledged his cousin with a single nod of his head, still maintaining his deadly level of focus throughout.

"You remember the plan?"

"Yeah," Andrew replied, "although are you sure you don't want to take more men? You know the rumors about – "

"We'll be fine."

Andrew fell silent, pushing his glasses up from where they had slipped down on his nose – it was a nervous habit of his that he had never quite been able to break.

"This is just an exploration – we aren't going to be charging into the ruins head-on before we know what's waiting for us."

However, before Andrew had even gotten the chance to reply in acknowledgement, Ben had started calling orders – to lower the sails, the anchor, all hands on deck, so on and so forth, and the musketeer went through his own personal checklist, running his hands over his belt to ensure that he had all three of his pistols and copiousamounts of powder, as well as some other essential supplies – he was a firm believer that one could never be too prepared.

The ship docked quickly and successfully, the anchor holding it steadfastly in place as Ben stepped out from behind the helm, descending onto the main deck with Andrew following closely behind.

"I need three men to accompany my cousin, the witchdoctor, and myself – this is _not_ an attack."

There was some murmuring at this amongst the members of the guild who were currently on board with them – obviously, there were many of those who expected violence, and perhaps even craved it. Given that they had been under Armada control for who _knew_ how long, Andrew could not entirely blame them.

However, the small conversations that had quickly started and then died soon after had not been of malicious intent whatsoever – the men still were vastly loyal to their leader – and three volunteers were quick to present themselves. Upon ensuring that all happenings upon the ship were in order, Ben was quick to lead them off and into the dark jungle of the Isle of Doom.

Andrew did not know what he had expected from the journey – but as he found, it was nowhere near as simple as he had initially thought.

The entire area had been bathed in a massive, shadowy blanket by the numerous thick trees that grew there, and the moisture and suffocating heat had become so much that Andrew's glasses had become entirely fogged up. Given that he could barely see an inch in front of his face without them, the journey had quickly become near-unbearable, not to mention that the muted sensation of the static electricity that seemed to emanate from the glowing head of Zachary's staff was rather irritating, especially at close proximity.

However, just when the musketeer was beginning to dread that the trip would indeed last for an _eternity_ of traveling through dense thickets of greenery, Benjamin had pushed aside a curtain of vines, and moonlight flooded in – they had finally arrived.

The Ancient Lizard Ruins were just as he had seen them in books, Andrew recalled – towering and mighty, the pyramid in the very center of it absolutely towering and the surrounding temples and buildings just as majestic – but it was _completely_ deserted.

There was not even a single clockwork soldier present as they slowly advanced forwards, Benjamin taking the lead, the only sounds being the quiet splashing of their boots due to the six inches of water that covered the entirety of the ground. This was rather odd, given that it had been occupied by the Armada for the longest time, even before Sydney Underhill had, supposedly, assumed control of them.

Weapons at the ready, the six men had advanced in a small cluster, silently, stealthily – until they _saw_ it.

" _My God,_ it's a corpse -!"

"Bloody hell, do you want every soldier in those tunnels to hear us?!"

But Andrew and Zachary could only gape in shock.

No more than six feet before them, on a risen fragment of a stone slab, was the body of the legendary buccaneer Samantha Hawkins.

Even though she was collapsed on her side, where she had fallen, the sheer _strength_ that had once resided within her body was visible even now, her rusted armor making her structure appear even broader than it likely was in actuality. Her helmet lay on the stone directly next to her, overturned, and her long hair was splayed out beneath her like a large dark pillow.

And perhaps the worst of it all was that her blue eyes, her bright, vivid blue eyes were still open, and they still contained all of the sadness and heartbreak that she had undoubtedly felt in her last few seconds of life before she was shot down like a wild beast by her own Captain.

" _Samantha…"_

Andrew was not even _aware_ that he had spoken aloud until Zachary had hissed at him to _be quiet –_ he was simply in utter disbelief. He had seen her once, perhaps, when she still was the dockmaster's apprentice, and she had pulled in an entire _galleon_ using nothing but her own strength. To see her felled in such a manner, with the hair scorched off of her scalp and a festering, rotting, blood-encrusted wound taking up most of the space, was tragic, it was griefinducing beyond words –

And not to mention it was frightening as well.

Obviously, even the strongwoman of Skull Island had not stood a chance against what lay within –

Who was to say that _they_ would?

"You four," Ben then whispered, effectively breaking the somber silence as he motioned to Zachary, as well as to the three additional men that had accompanied them on this exploration voyage, "take her back to the ship. And take care – she's to be treated with _respect."_

Kneeling beside the buccaneer's fallen form, Benjamin gently placed his fingertips on Samantha's eyelids, closing them over her partially deteriorated, but still _ever_ vivid eyes before stepping back and allowing one of the men to cover her body with his coat before lifting her – albeit with some _difficulty._ Samantha had stood nearly as tall as Benjamin himself, and likely weighed even more, although the decay process had significantly lessened the mass of her immense muscles.

Luckily, Zachary was not too squeamish as to be afraid to help. He had come around the other side of her, so that the weight was distributed equally between his arms and that of the other man's as the four of them now turned to head back into the jungle, in the direction of the ship, leaving both Andrew and his Marleybonian cousin at the steps of the towering pyramid.

"So it's true."

Benjamin was numb – he was in shock, he could barely _move_ after seeing and realizing what this meant –

"She's killed her crew."

 _Sydney's killed her sisters._

Knowing that it was best not to reply, Andrew only fell silent, a somber air reigning over the area once more as the water quietly lapped around their ankles. There was still a puddle of dried, encrusted blood on the stone slab before them, where it had pooled underneath Samantha's head in the moments after she had fallen.

 _After she was shot down –_

 _Like nothing more than an animal._

"She's still in there, then – the-the other one, and Sydney herself…" Even now, as Benjamin spoke, the volume of his voice only increasing by the second from the quiet, reserved whisper that it had started out as, and Andrew knew he was referring to Jewel – _the other one._

"Most likely."

It was quite ironic, how calmly these words left Andrew's mouth – if anything, he would be affected by the sight of the body more than Benjamin himself, given how he had nearly _collapsed_ upon seeing Samantha, who simply appeared to be sleeping aside from the scorch mark on the side of her head. If Jewel was within the tunnels, and therefore closer to Sydney and her soldiers, it was not likely that her death had been anywhere near as _clean._

The thought of it made his stomach flip.

However, he did not suffer the emotional damage that was dealt to his cousin, the pain of knowing that a trusted childhood friend whom he had known and grown up with had completely abandoned her sanity, her former persona, her _humanity._

Nevertheless, before long, Benjamin still found himself leading Andrew up the staircase of the pyramid and into the tunnels, both of them with their guns drawn.

Yet, strangely, enough, they did not see any clockworks – not even after they had walked for what seemed to be at least half an hour. They could not even hear the mechanical marching of patrols off in the distance, which would have rung out loud and clear upon the stone floors and walls of the tunnels. As odd as this was, the two of them continued forwards – until they came to a large, cavernous chamber, the walls and ceiling of which where so far away that they could not be seen. At the very other side of it, however, another stretch of tunnels was visible, illuminated by the faint light that the few torches suspended on the walls offered.

" _Stay close."_

Andrew himself did not even have the bravery to reply to his cousin out of fear of detection (despite the fact that there was still no sign of any clockworks whatsoever), only following Benjamin as the arms master pressed himself up against the wall. Pistol gripped tightly in hand, he glanced once around the corner before moving forwards noiselessly, signaling for Andrew to do the same.

The tunnels were empty all the same, just as it had been for the first stretch, but safety was not something they could afford to compromise, especially when there were only _two_ of them. If they were to be killed here, there was no telling what would become of the crew – if they were to come after them and meet their same fate, if they were to attempt to take matters into their own hands without the adequate commandeering mindset or a full knowledge of the situation, the list of grim possibilities went on and on.

Their hearts racing, they pressed onwards – this was a scouting mission, and their purpose was to see just _what_ was waiting for them.

So far, it appeared to be _nothing,_ but underestimation was dangerous – especially in a setting so vast, maze-like and unknown as the tunnels while facing an enemy as deadly as the clockwork soldiers, and potentially a crazed privateer.

Again, this continued for what seemed like another _hour_ or so – but Andrew himself did not dare to look down to check his pocketwatch, not to mention that it had likely been a much shorter time than it seemed, only lengthened by their rushing blood and anticipation.

 _Never too aware._

But perhaps there _was_ such a thing.

They took slow, silent steps, pressing their backs against the wall as they were careful to control their breathing so that it was _impossible_ to be heard, and this continued on for quite a while –

That was, until Benjamin looked around yet another corner, identical to the last several that they had rounded, but when he turned back around, his complexion had gone all but _white,_ his eyes widened with shock and _terror._

 _Another body? Or –_

Before Andrew could try and brainstorm even some of the other expected possibilities, however, Benjamin had grabbed his wrist, pulling the both of them quickly back in the direction that they had came from, just as slowly, and just as _silently –_ but with a hundred times the amount of fear than before, from what Benjamin had seen and from what his cousin had been left to wonder of.

It was only when they were within the large, cave-like chamber once more that Benjamin spoke, and even then, it was still in the softest whisper.

"There was an entire _wall_ of them."

"A wall of what – _clockworks?"_

"Yes, there must have been _hundreds_ of them - I couldn't even see where the blockade ended."

" _My God – "_

"I'm guessing that they're guarding their _Commander._ "

 _Sydney._

"So it's true, it's _all_ true…she really _did_ take them over…!"

"It appears so."

Even though Benjamin had turned away when he said this, Andrew did not need to look him in the eye to hear the pain in his voice – to know that he was still mourning the loss of a friend. For even if she was still standing, if she still could bellow out commands just as she had been so known for, her sanity, her _humanity_ was dead. However, he swallowed this, shoving it down for another time, another day, for the sake of assuming his much-needed cool exterior.

At least for now.

"We'd best return – there isn't anything we can do about this blockade right now, not just the two of us, and now that we know what's waiting for us, we can start making plans."

These words were forced, and they still shook with traces of the shock and horror that the _both_ of them had experienced – but they were enough, and for today, they would leave these ruins.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

Atop the massive staircase in the central chamber of the tunnels, Custos Quintus stood guard – vigilantly, ever-watching, just like he always had been and would forever be.

 _I will always protect you._

Behind him, his Commander slept – just as she had been for several weeks now, more peaceful and silent than ever before. Quintus could not say that he had not been expecting this, that he had not already predicted and calculated this ahead of time – as before they had arrived here, before she had fortified these tunnels and assumed control of her soldiers, she would go without sleeping or even eating for days and days at a time.

It was only natural that this sort of fatigue would catch up to her in due time.

His Commander needed her rest, her sleep, and he would watch over her as she was lost in it – no matter how long it would take for her to wake up.

For when she _did_ wake up, he knew, she would be in a much more stable condition than before – the dark circles underneath her eyes would lessen, her skin would slowly return to a healthy shade, and she would not stagger with her every step.

Never once fully relinquishing his grip upon his rifle, Quintus knelt down, gently brushing aside some of the hair that had fallen over his Commander's face – and he could tell she was in poor health indeed, and that all those sleepless nights had finally taken a toll upon her. The lock of hair had almost instantly come off into his hand, the dark strands sliding beneath his fingers and falling upon the stone floor of the platform as his fingertips made slight imprints in the _red dark red_ of her flesh. It was soft and pliable and nearly brown and _black_ , much more so it should have been. Quintus was not a human by any means, but he had served his Commander long enough to tell if she was _healthy_ or not.

The loud, rhythmic noises of boots upon the floor forced him to stand up from his position, raising his rifle just as two Marines began to ascend the massive staircase, having stepped around the body of the swashbuckler that laid at the base. It was a sight had often threatened the stability of his Commander, and it was more than likely that the burden of having to look upon this had contributed to her severe fatigue, to her desperate need for sleep.

"Supreme Comma – "

" _Negative!"_

"Custos Quintus." The marine who had initially spoken quickly corrected himself – but Quintus was still at a loss as to why this had occurred in the first place. He was, perhaps, her unnamed second in command, yes, but the _true_ Commander was still sleeping – it was not as if _she_ no longer held reign!

"The Supreme Commander is resting. She wishes not to be disturbed."

"Soldier, it is imperative that you understand – "

" _She wishes not to be disturbed."_

 _That_ seemed to have gotten across to the two marines, for they quickly turned and departed, at last leaving Quintus and his Commander in peace, so that she could rest and recover as she so desperately needed, so that he could watch over her as she did so.

Glancing back at her once again, Quintus noticed that a small cloud of flies had congregated over and upon her face, and he was quick to drop to her side and wave them away.

How difficult it must be, he observed, to rest when every disturbance insists on finding her!

His Commander, he knew, would sleep for a very long time indeed, for she was so very _tired –_ but it mattered not.

He would wait.

* * *

 **I hope you enjoyed, and do be sure to leave a review!**

 **\- Severina**


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19: Traps and Threats**

When Andrew and Benjamin had finally stumbled out of the jungle of the Isle of Doom and onto the docks once more, no words could have described the relief that had flooded through the both of them at the sight of their ships, lined up at the docks just as they had left them. After what was most likely another hour of stumbling through the dense patches of vegetation under the moist atmosphere that seemed to get heavier and heavier every second, it was an understatement to say that they were _grateful_ to be back again.

The newly-made crew did not rush to meet them upon their arrival on deck, however – likely because they knew full well the importance of staying hidden more than most others. In fact, the deck of the _Knave's Voyage_ was completely deserted –

Save for one golden-eyed witchdoctor.

"You guys look like you've seen a ghost."

Andrew scoffed, although he could not deny how much he was shaking even now – both from the image of Samantha Hawkins' corpse, which seemed to be burned into his mind, and from the realization that the horrifying rumors were true – all of them. Captain Sydney Underhill's descent into insanity, her seizure of the clockworks and the tunnels of the Ancient Ruins, and the _murder of her crew._

"Well, you're not entirely wrong, I guess – "

Then he remembered that Zachary had _carried_ Samantha's body back himself without so much as flinching. Even now, he looked relatively stable, and not shaken whatsoever –

Andrew could not quite figure out if this was his own squeamishness or due to the fact that Zachary was somehow _desensitized_ to these sorts of scenarios.

"Wait – where did you put her…?" Benjamin asked, as from where he was standing, he could see no sign of the buccaneer's corpse – not that he had expected her to still be out on the deck somewhere. After all, his instructions had been to treat her with _respect._

"The dead woman?"

" _Samantha._ " Andrew nearly snapped, almost shocked at his own clipping tone.

"Right, Samantha _–_ I've got her in my cabin."

" _Why the hell-?!"_

The musketeer could feel the veins on his own neck nearly burst – out of _all_ places, why in the _Spiral_ would he put a corpse in his own –

" _Relax._ I'm just going to examine her when I can – don't you want to know more about how she died?"

Andrew didn't want to know.

"I…I suppose."

"Then let me handle it." Rather than replying to the witchdoctor, Andrew just shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose – the last thing he wanted to think about right now was Samantha's corpse. Not only because it was _gruesome_ and Andrew truly was not one for blood and death, but also because the prospect of betrayal seemed closer and more terrifying to him now than ever before. "It'll give us more of an idea of what kind of circumstances she was killed under – so that _we_ can avoid getting killed a little better."

"Our thanks," Benjamin acknowledged, nodding in Zachary's direction, "I doubt there would be many others on board who would be willing to, more or less, perform an autopsy."

The witchdoctor, of course, only gave a lazy grin and quirked his head slightly in reply.

Now pushing himself off from where he had been leaning against the railing, Benjamin furrowed his brow in thought –

"Zachary, where are the others?"

"They've gathered down below decks, like you told them to – they've been waiting for you."

"Good – we've got a lot of information, and very little time." The guild leader crossed the deck in five determined strides, leaving Andrew and Zachary to trail him once more as he led them below decks, where the seventeen other Marleybonian guild members awaited them. Any murmurs or whispered speech that had been taking place beforehand almost _instantly_ stopped, and Benjamin now held the undivided attention of all that were present.

"We've returned," Benjamin began, "but it's not looking good."

A few quieted, hushed whispers, likely of panic or concern, but nothing more.

"It appears that the rumors told to us by our Skull Island friends are entirely true," he said, now reaching behind him and pushing Andrew and Zachary forwards, but not so that they were thrown off balance, "Sydney Underhill has slain her crew and sealed herself within the tunnels."

"You _saw_ her?"

Benjamin shook his head.

"She has used every last one of her soldiers to ensure her own security – it appears that she has assumed control of the clockwork squadron that had been stationed within the ruins."

And _now_ came the cries of outrage.

"How is this _possible?!_ A woman, a _human_ like us, commanding those heartless, _soulless –_ "

"I don't know how she did it – none of us do."

"Then how are you certain that it is her?"

"Would the Armada have withdrawn all troops into a defensive block of hundreds when there is no present threat?"

Silence again, because they knew the answer – because they _knew_ he was right. There was no other plausible explanation, not after _she_ had been found lying at the foot of the pyramid, the light having left her eyes long ago.

"We recovered the body of Underhill's crewmate – as you all have _seen_. She was put to death – "

"Impossible!"

"By her own _Captain._ "

And _there_ came the cries of protest, of denial, perhaps of justification, even – Benjamin had expected this, but it did not make the reality of it any less painful. He listened to them nevertheless, how they screamed that this was unthinkable, how a Captain would never do such to their crew, how the three women themselves were as closely knit together as sisters, and yet –

"She had not been struck down in combat with the clockworks?!"

"With no clockwork casualties? With no wounds other than the bloody hole on the side of her head?"

Unlike those of his comrades and followers, Benjamin's own voice was _deadly_ calm. Rather, his words were heavy, carrying a sad, solemn, grim weight with them, and it ushered in another era of that dreadful silence.

"The strongwoman of Skull Island," he went on, "would not have been cut down in a _fight_ so easily. Samantha had fallen over kneeling, with her helmet beside her – she was _executed._ "

 _Executed by the clockworks, perhaps, they are merciless!_

Although none of Benjamin's guild members had the indignity to speak those words aloud, he could hear them nevertheless – the doubt within their minds, as was expected from a group of men who had been oppressed into hiding by the Valencian Armada, who had suffered the loss of a war with a genocidal intention against them.

"Underhill's betrayal was witnessed by Hunter Chamberlain – the patron of the Skull Island Resistance branch, and a _Marleybonian,_ one of _ours!_ "

 _If you will not believe our words, then believe his!_

It was a desperate last resort, to use another's words when they were not present, leaving them to only the interpretation of the recipients, but it was successful indeed – for now, the hushed conversation taking place between the guild members was of a more contemplative tone, without the fury that had been present earlier. As a practiced leader of these men, Benjamin had learned to detect and sense this, even without hearing any of these small conversations directly.

"My cousin and I _saw_ her forces – there are at least three hundred clockwork soldiers, likely more – they were arranged into a blockade so large, that I could not see the end of their formation."

"And there are a _hundred_ of us."

The man who had spoken now stepped forwards, looking Benjamin directly in the eye – but not with hostility. Rather, it was only with _intention._ Andrew instantly recognized him as the man that had helped Zachary carry Samantha Hawkins' corpse back to the ship while he and Benjamin had continued into the ruins.

"We cannot attack them head on, obviously," the guild leader acknowledged, grateful for an input that was at least somewhat constructive, "but we are an _arms guild,_ are we not? Our skills are far more diverse than _direct combat._ "

The murmurs and whispers turned to those of agreement, several of the men shouting their approval, and indeed, it was true – under the control of the clockwork Armada, whose soldiers outnumbered them immensely, they had learned to become quite creative when it came to engineering new forms of defense.

Benjamin then planted a hand firmly on Andrew's shoulder, nearly knocking him to the ground.

"You shall be under _his_ direction. My cousin, Andrew Sharp, is a fine inventor himself, and you will do well to trust him as you would me, or any other member of this guild."

And it was _so_ much more than a guild.

Ordinarily, a guild was a gathering, a committee of those with similar professions, but under wartime circumstances, under the constant threat of tyranny, of death, of genocide and other unimaginable atrocities, they had become more of a _brotherhood._

Thus, it was an immense honor, at least among _these_ men, to be trusted as one of them – and Andrew was effectively humbled.

Benjamin dismissed the men back to their posts shortly afterwards, each of them with the instructions to _think_ of any possible way to _subdue_ as many clockwork soldiers as possible – but not _destroy,_ he had said.

Of course, these instructions were questionable, but the leader that it had come from was not. Each and every one of the men aboard that ship would trust Benjamin Spinnaker with their life – this was simply another test.

Now left to his own devices, Zachary Zest returned to his cabin, and to the cadaver of Samantha Hawkins.

It was a surprise that they had even managed to fit her on the table – even though some of her muscle mass had turned to soft, pliable, half-decayed flesh, her frame was still broader than most men, even, and it had been difficult to get her through the narrow doorway of the cabin without bumping her into the wall or the doorframe.

Carefully, pressing himself against the walls of the narrow room so that he would not accidentally bump into the corners or edges of the table, Zachary walked around to where her torso was, cautiously and meticulously unclasping the massive metal vest of armor she wore. This in itself was not difficult – it was actually getting it _off_ of her that would be the problem.

Upon unhinging her armor, the smell was absolutely _revolting,_ and it nearly made Zachary himself grow lightheaded – but such was to be expected from a corpse that had laid in a moist, humid climate for several weeks. This was all the more reason for Zachary to try and make physical contact with the corpse as _little_ as humanly possible as he slid the armor off of her, being forced to lift her head so that the edge would not tear the deteriorated flesh of the back of her throat.

He could feel the dried, crusted blood in her hair that had pooled underneath her head when she had fallen, and it made him shiver –

But it also made him think.

 _She was executed._

By her Captain, her Captain that she trusted and her Captain that _betrayed_ her, ultimately, in the end. It was saddening, it was somber, and it was terrifying all at the same time.

If Sydney Underhill, one of their own, one of the Resistance, was still within the tunnels, would she do the same to them as she did to her own comrade? Would she have them executed, would she send her clockwork legions after them to overpower them and to strike her fellow man down?

Most likely so.

He removed the rest of Samantha's armor from her corpse without much struggle – the plates over her shins, the layered, scale-like guards upon her shoulders – her helmet, which had already been knocked off when they first found her, laid beside his foot, as was the hatchet that had been found beside her. When that was done, Samantha was left in a plain white (he _presumed_ that it had once been white) shirt and fitted black pants – with her armor gone, she no longer had the appearance of a warrior.

Rather, she was just a woman.

A girl, even.

She had a young face, Zachary noticed, moving her long, blood-encrusted hair out of the way as much as he possibly could, with freckled skin and high cheekbones, almost out of place compared to the rest of her body, built stronger than any man's. He wondered how she felt, how much pain she was in when she died – not necessarily from the shot that ended her life, but from her Captain's betrayal.

Just as Benjamin had said, Samantha had fallen to the ground from a kneeling position – the angle at which her legs were bent and the deterioration of the surrounding tissue accordingly had proved him correct. Judging from the small cuts covering the palms of her hands, her exposed wrists, tiny scrapes with gravel fragments still in them, she had been involved in a fight beforehand – although there was no blood upon her hands or even upon the blade of her weapon.

 _She was executed –_

 _Cut down by her Captain._

Against his own better judgement, Zachary let these thoughts linger for a second too long, and tears stung his eyes –

He could not help but feel overwhelming pity for her.

Although there was rarely an individual who had gone throughout life without committing some sin or crime, betrayal was never a punishment that was deserved.

Samantha's closed eyelids had cracked open once again, revealing a sliver of the deteriorated matter underneath, and Zachary shivered – even through the rot, the bright blue of her irises was still visible. The witchdoctor could just imagine the horror that had flashed within them in her last seconds – or perhaps the defeat, perhaps she had _seen_ this coming.

Out of all the deaths that he had heard of and seen, this one was by far the most undeserved, the most tragic.

On a complete whim, the witchdoctor placed his hand upon Samantha's shoulder, whispering the incantation that he had learned to wield his green magic, those healing skills that were not quite like those of the privateers – that would have sealed her wounds, had she been alive.

However, as it appeared, his efforts were _not_ in vain –

For even within that brief second, before he had pulled his hand away in utter and complete shock, he had felt Samantha's flesh firming beneath his hand, as if the muscles and tissues had restored themselves beneath his very fingers.

At first, Zachary had staggered back, bracing himself against the wall to fight against the wave of vertigo that had hit him then – but he was back upright quickly, and upon closer inspection, it was revealed that this was _exactly_ what had happened.

Not only had the muscles upon her shoulders and torso visibly restored themselves, but the cuts on her palms, the scraped flesh upon the backs of her knuckles had also seemingly _healed._

And her _eyes –_

Her eyes were no longer rotted, they were no longer festering, blackened clumps with occasional speckles of color – rather, when Zachary reached forwards and lifted her eyelids, he found that her bright blue eyes were once again whole and vibrant, as they had been when she was alive.

Again, he staggered back – but this time, it was out of astonishment, perhaps at _himself._

For not only did his magic heal wounds, but it _reversed_ the damage done by decay –

" _All hands on deck!"_

Quick to react as always, Zachary stumbled out from behind the table and out of the door of his cabin, wiping off his hands on his clothing as he did so – examining a corpse was not exactly the most _sanitary_ pastime. Making his way to the deck, he met up with Andrew, who was also wiping off his hands, probably from gunpowder or engine oil or something of that sort. He had black smudges covering his face and forearms, indicating that it was most likely the former.

"What's going on?"

Rather than replying immediately, Andrew only pointed out into the distance, where a large, black ship was passing from one windlane to another. Although all twenty of the men were on deck, it was _completely_ silent, every last one of them transfixed by the sight, even though the ship was much too far away to see any other details regarding it.

This was not a problem for much longer, however, as Andrew was quick to pull out his spyglass and focus it upon the unidentified ship.

"It's a Skull Island galleon, I'm certain of it, and – "

However, his words had stopped there.

"What? What _is_ it?" Zachary snapped insistently, not out of spite, but out of urgency. If it was an enemy ship, then battle preparations would need to be made as soon as possible.

"It's the _Fife."_

"It's the _what?"_

"The _Grand Fife,_ Zachary – _Sydney Underhill's_ ship! Its flag is black and grey, with the crossed hatchet and sword!" Of course, the witchdoctor had not believed him instantly, and he had snatched the spyglass out of his hands to see for himself, only to find that Andrew had spoken the truth.

"You're right – it _is_ the _Fife…_ "

Lowering the spyglass, his brow furrowed in confusion, he handed the device back to the musketeer, who snatched it back up and tucked it safely away. Although both of them had been stunned into silence, they both knew that they were thinking of the exact same thing – _Brandon,_ the swashbuckler who had staggered onto the island and who they had spoken to in the infirmary just minutes before the island was _demolished,_ who was screaming of the Fife, that _the Fife still sails!_

"But Sydney's in _there._ " His confusion only growing, Zachary now turned to Andrew, pointing over his shoulder into the Ancient Ruins, and Andrew's eyes widened in a combination of bewilderment and astonishment.

"If she's in the tunnels, then what's sailing her ship?!"

* * *

 **Do be sure to leave a review!**

 **\- Severina**


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20: A Close Encounter**

"Has the Armada increased the number of ships they send out?"

"No, but I have reason to believe that they – "

"We have no proof that they will." Vadima cut Hunter off, waving a hand as if she was physically dismissing his remark.

She was right, of course, Hunter knew – almost strangely, despite the fact that both he and Madame Vadima had been reported as _missing_ rather than killed, which would certainly pose a threat, the small number of clockwork ships patrolling the skies just around Skull Island had not increased in the slightest.

However, there was also the possibility that Prima Militus, the newly named _Supreme Commander,_ had simply chosen not to expand the patrols within the skyways for other reasons – meaning that there would be a much greater number of soldiers on the island itself.

Hunter just barely managed to suppress his sigh of exasperation, bringing a hand up to his forehead. As of now, after the survivors had began to gather in Corsair's Cove, he and Madame Vadima had worked together to ensure the safety of those who had banded together, including accounting for food and medical supplies.

Not to mention the need for defense.

With the Armada having fully taken over Skull Island, this was a greater necessity than ever before. It was a fortunate surprise that the number of Armada ships within the skyways had not increased, but it was one that Hunter did not expect to count on. For all he knew, it could be an attempt to goad them into dropping their guard, and, therefore, revealing their location.

"Madame Vadima, we _must_ fight – "

"No."

"For our _freedom,_ Madame, they're going to find us eventually - "

"Not yet."

"And they're going to _kill_ us - !"

"Not _YET!"_

In a flurry of beads and disheveled scarves, Vadima brought her hand down upon his desk with a resounding _bang_ that made Hunter jump nearly a foot in the air. Even now, after it had been almost a decade since his last official master lesson with her, she still commanded _authority,_ something he _thought_ he had learned to do, but obviously still had a long way to go for improvement.

Then again, her fury as of now was understandable – he had lost the love of his life, and in that same instant, she had lost her greatest progeny, a _daughter,_ almost, and he could see in her eyes how Dangler's death had unhinged her as well.

However, that did not do anything to lessen Hunter's panic regarding their current situation – even though Vadima had somehow reassured herself that the Armada would never dare to increase their skyway patrols, regardless of the fact that both he and Vadima were of a high significance within the Resistance – therefore meaning that they would be _sought after,_ after having been declared missing rather than dead.

 _We must fight!_

The clockworks would find them sooner or later, and perhaps it would have been better for the straggling survivors of Skull Island to have gathered in a location that was further away from the island itself, but as of now, there was nothing more that they could do – not when there were over sixty ships within this cove, filled with the wounded and recovering.

Vadima had been his instructor, yes, and she was one of the most respected figures within the Resistance – but as of now, with her sanity in doubt, he was somewhat reluctant to trust her words and her plans.

 _Not yet._

She was waiting for something – be it for the numbers to increase, an open window in the clockwork forces to attack, or perhaps something else – but whatever it was, the _dependency_ that they had upon this unknown factor, judging from Vadima's words, greatly unnerved him.

However, it was then that the door to his cabin was practically _blown_ open, a musketeer running inside, her hands shaking as she fumbled to hold on to the spyglass clenched in her fist. If her face had held any color before, it was obviously gone now, as she was as white as a sheet, and several seconds passed before she was able to speak.

"Mr. Chamberlain, sir, there's a ship outside – "

"An Armada ship?!"

If his fears had been confirmed –

"N-no, one of ours – it's the _Grand Fife!"_

Hunter froze.

"It can't be."

How _could it,_ he thought, for although he still remembered the pirate who had been dragged onto the ship several weeks ago, covered in massive, enormous bite marks and screaming of the big eyed, grey eyed woman, he had _seen_ Sydney Underhill blockade herself into the tunnels, he had seen her abandon her ship - !

In a panic, the girl, who could not have been older than nineteen, wildly gestured towards the deck, where she had been keeping watch.

"It's _there,_ sir, out there, I can show you - !"

Following her out onto the deck of the ship, Hunter took the spyglass when she offered it to him, pointing it directly at the area within the windlane that she had instructed, only to find that she was _correct._

There, almost lazily sailing across the windlane in the direction of Flotsam Skyway at a speed so slow that it appeared to be stagnant for some of the time, was a large, black galleon, its sails so tattered that it seemed to be a miracle that they could still catch any wind at all. Yet, they were still intact enough for him to be able to make out the crossed sword and hatchet that it bore.

"See, sir, i-it is, it's the _Fife –_ "

And that was what _she_ had screamed as well.

The girl, _the girl_ with the bite scars and the shrieked horror stories of the _grey eyed woman,_ the one that he remembered but he did not _want_ to.

Almost dreading what he would find, Hunter focused the spyglass upon the helm of the ship – and although he did not know what he had been expecting, what he had found was that there was no visible individual at the wheel. It was not truly that much of a surprise, given that the ship was being steered by the currents of the windlane, but given what the stricken girl, what _Evangeline_ had told him, he had internally speculated something horrific.

But perhaps that _something horrific_ was still _inside._

It was like a nightmare come alive, this scenario – if the grey-eyed woman, if _Sydney Underhill_ was still sailing the skyways, then she was a threat to all of them. As famed as she had been for her unconventional yet effective leadership technique and her sparse yet invincible crew, he had seen her take control of a horde of clockworks and murder her so-called _sisters._

She was a madwoman, a dangerousone, she was the _murderer_ of his _love - !_

And in that moment, he took it upon himself to avenge her.

"Gather a team of seven – I want them on the deck of one of our intact skiffs in fifteen minutes."

The girl, still shaking, nodded and ran.

Given that many of the pirates that currently resided amongst this floating city of ships were much too injured to even stand, let alone sail or fight, Hunter had taken it upon himself to find one of the more darkly-colored skiffs to put to use for this _expedition._

The musketeers, three women and four men, each carrying at least five firearms each, had found Hunter right on time – and before long, Hunter was guiding the ship out of the cove, making sure to travel at a slow, smooth speed as to not make any unnecessary noise or attract possible attention from the Armada.

It was not hard to find the _Fife_ , even in the darkness – after all, it was an enormousship, even though it had only been occupied by three people. Ordinarily, that would not have been enough to commandeer a ship of that size. Then again, the crew of the _Grand Fife_ had been anything but ordinary.

 _We will not fire._

Hunter had repeated those instructions several times, and clearly, just before they had exited the cove – for it would do them more harm than good. Even on the off chance that they would be able to hit the _Fife,_ given that it was the dead of night and the ship was painted black, it would most _definitely_ alert the clockworks of a Resistance presence in the skyway. However, it was not until they were nearly _next_ to the ship that Hunter even thought about the possibility of the _Fife_ firing upon them, and he and his crew quickly braced themselves for impact.

However, much to their surprise, the _Fife_ did not fire whatsoever – it did not change its sluggish pace or direction. Instead, the battered, beaten ship merely carried on.

And how _certainly_ battered and beaten it truly was – it was only now, now that the skiff he was on was pulling up beside the galleon, that he could see the numerous holes in the hull, the excessive damage done to the mermaid figurehead and the sails, the sails _especially._ Just as he had seen in the spyglass when he was standing on the deck of his own ship, they were torn beyond belief, and he was still at a loss as to _how_ this ship was still sailing.

Signaling the woman standing to his left to take the wheel, Hunter bent over the railing of the ship, craning his neck in order to get a better view of the ship, only to find that again, what he had seen in the spyglass was correct. The deck and the helm were completely deserted, save for the outlines of clusters of crates and barrels, and there was no sign of any human activity whatsoever.

The ship lurched underneath his feet, and Hunter grabbed the railing to stay balanced as he whipped his head around to look at the woman at the helm.

"We're being boarded, sir!"

"Pull away from the _Fife –_ "

"I can't!"

Internally cursing, Hunter dashed back up to the helm, pushing the musketeer aside and taking the wheel once more, only to find that he could not turn the ship away either. It was as if some great, colossal, magnetic force was pulling the skiff towards the _Fife –_ and they were powerless to stop it.

With a great _crash,_ the _Fife_ rammed itself into the side of the comparatively tiny skiff that the eight pirates were on, effectively crushing the railing and pushing up a large amount of the boards that made up the deck, nearly _melding_ the skiff to the much larger ship. Hunter and his team of musketeers had been knocked off of their feet, although they were quick to stagger back up, drawing their weapons as they did so.

 _The grey-eyed woman, the grey-eyed woman!_

Yet, so far, he had not seen any trace of Sydney Underhill.

Steeling himself, Hunter drew his sword and pistol from his belt, leading the way onto the deck of the _Grand Fife._

If Sydney Underhill, the privateer who _stabbed_ Dangler to death was truly aboard this ship, he would make her pay.

He would make her pay _dearly._

Stepping over the splintered wood of the skiff and onto the much larger deck of the _Grand Fife,_ Hunter took care not to make a sound, watching behind him until the seven musketeers had also safely made it across. Then –

" _Sir, those aren't crates."_ The woman that Hunter had handed the wheel off to just moments ago looked as if she was about to faint.

"What in the -?!"

Hunter turned around, only to find himself staggering back as well in pure horror.

The outlines he had seen earlier upon the deck of the _Fife_ were not crates or barrels – they were _bodies,_ anywhere from twenty to thirty of them – amidst the fog and the darkness, he could not quite tell.

However, he had only needed to glance over three of them to realize that they were all in the same horrifically _dismal_ condition – each one of them appeared to be coated in dried blood, with chunks of flesh torn from their sides, many of them with missing limbs, _all_ of them covered in those dreadful, massive bite marks that he had seen on Evangeline.

 _She killed my brothers!_

And she would kill them too, they would join the corpses upon the deck.

"Get back to the ship, _now!"_

The door to the Captain's cabin was suddenly flung open with a loud _bang,_ and the eight of them were instantly frozen, rooted in place by some immense, invisible force as a figure emerged from within. The color draining completely from his face, Hunter quickly cocked his pistol, aiming it at what appeared to be its head –

Before it had stepped forwards, the moonlight revealing its visage.

A woman, a tall woman, black hair, a bony, sunken, harsh face, big eyes, _grey eyes._

"Is that…?!"

"It's Underhill…"

And it was indeed – Hunter could not _believe_ his eyes – it was Sydney Underhill, but her eyes were not filled with rage or madness or bloodlust, unlike the last time that he had seen her. Rather, they were wide in obvious fear, and she staggered towards them, stretching out a hand. Behind her, Hunter could just barely make out the outline of a chair in her cabin, and of the _terminated_ frame of an Armada clockwork –

Terminated, _killed,_ just like Samantha, he thought, the anger and the rage and the bitter need for revenge suddenly flaring to life within him, just like Jewel, just like _Dangler - !_

" _Kill her!"_

Without time to hesitate or to even question his orders, the eight of them opened fire upon Sydney Underhill, charges flying at and into her body from every direction as she _screamed_ once in pain, collapsing on the ground.

But there was no blood.

Hunter did not even have time to realize _what_ this meant before he saw it for himself – unaffected, other than having been pushed slightly backwards by the impact, the former privateer stood back up, no evidence of any wounds visible on her body as she now _charged_ towards them, _easily_ pushing through all of the fired charges as if her collapse a few seconds ago had been mere theatrics, much to the alarm of Hunter and his team.

However, her newfound invincibility was not the most terrifying part, it was not what made his fighters scream to the skies and pray to various higher beings. Rather, it was how, with every step that she took, her face morphed, her eyes darkened until they were completely _black,_ blood-red pupils just barely visible – it was how her lips, the flesh around her mouth cracking and splitting and peeling away to reveal rows upon rows of sharp, dagger-like, _shark-like_ teeth, her jaws unhinging like a _snake's –_

And she _screeched,_ an unholy, _unbearable_ sound that chilled Hunter's blood in his veins.

He had managed to dive out of the way just as Sydney lunged towards them, her skin ashen as she grabbed hold of the musketeer that had been standing _just_ behind Hunter seconds earlier, not hesitating whatsoever as she buried her teeth into the flesh of the musketeer woman's throat, the rifle that had been clenched in her hands falling to the deck as the monstrous being that once was _Sydney Underhill_ tore her apart, while Hunter himself could only watch in horror, his knees giving out as he slid to the blood-soaked deck.

" _Maya-!"_

" _Get back! Get back to the ship!"_

Several of them, including Hunter himself, had attempted to scramble back to the ship, only to find that Sydney – or rather, the being that had once _been_ Sydney – was much faster than they imagined. As they ran, two more of them were snatched back by the demonic _creature,_ and they did not dare to look back, not even to confirm the fate of their fallen comrades as they ran onwards towards the partially destroyed deck of the skiff –

Only for the skiff to unexplainably disconnect itself entirely from the _Fife,_ instead coming apart into a mass of broken wooden planks, nothing more than another mass of flotsam floating adrift in the skyway.

Their only means of escape.

Still, they ran, as now they were not running towards the ship, but away from Sydney Underhill, away from the monstrous, _hellish_ being that had once been one of their own, a privateer of the resistance now slaying and _devouring_ her own kind –

Hunter could barely hear himself screaming as the dark-skinned man next to him was abruptly snatched back by this creature, no, his own sounds of terror were drowned out by the noises of ripping flesh and the choked, strangled sounds of his comrade as he was subjected to a fate far crueler than any individual deserved, no matter what their crimes.

One by one, as they ran, they were picked off – and Hunter, with fear overflowing in his heart and veins as he was unable to even look back to see how many of the musketeers had made it still, flung himself over the railing of the ship, plummeting down into the endless depths of the skyway – but _not_ before he felt _her_ hands upon his ankle, her teeth _plunging_ into his flesh before he had yanked himself away and tumbled over. It was only by some miraculous chance that he had managed to keep himself afloat, clutching and clinging to a piece of driftwood that was most likely from the destroyed skiff.

Without thinking twice, he frantically pushed forwards, back towards the cove, the floating piece of wood serving as his lifeline and never once looking back, _anything to get away from that thing!_

Several minutes passed by before he had realized that out of the seven musketeers that had accompanied them, none of them were with him now.

He was alone.

This in itself induced an entirely different type of fear – instead of a burst of adrenaline and terror, it was more of a sinking feeling, a snake of dread that had made itself comfortable in the pit of his stomach.

Even though he had seen Sydney Underhill seal herself into the tunnels after _murdering_ his Dangler, as well as her own _crew_ only months ago, the fact remained that she was _here,_ and there were now thirty-six human corpses upon the deck of her ship, slain and mauled and _devoured_ by her, _solely_ by her. The numbers would only climb, they knew, the piles of bodies would only grow.

The massive wound on his leg burned and stung, and he pushed on.

* * *

 **Do be sure to leave a review!**

 **\- Severina**


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter 21: Restoration and Preparation**

Climbing up the staircase that led to the deck for the first time in what must have been at least eight hours, Andrew squinted at the bright sunlight, raising a hand to shield his eyes. His face was absolutely _covered_ in gunpowder, save for the two circles of area upon his face that had been spared by his glasses. Then again, he could not have expected anything _else_ of these nonstop projects, really.

It had only been a week, perhaps, since he and Benjamin had returned from their venture out into the tunnels of the Ancient Ruins, but within that short span of time, Andrew had engineered more explosive devices, more smoke bombs and detonating devices than he had cumulatively in his entire _life._ He had sparsely eaten to devote even more time to this project, and it showed.

His face looked sunken, his hair unruly, his clothing slightly looser than usual, and he suddenly understood mad scientists much more than he had ever wanted to.

"You showed your face!"

The time that Andrew had spent in solitude had only worsened his reaction, his jumpy nature, and he could have sworn that he had leaped at least three feet in the air, fighting the urge to absolutely pummel the spiky-haired witchdoctor.

"Zachary, _what the hell?"_

Of course, Zachary himself paid his words no attention, as per usual, and busied himself with pulling rather _obnoxiously_ at the musketeer's hair.

"You look like you haven't slept in days."

"I _haven't."_

"That's not a _good thing!"_ Zachary retorted, staring incredulously at his lifelong friend – he knew that Andrew had a tendency to become quickly absorbed in his own work easily, but people had _limits._ Then again, he supposed that this project was urgent _–_ if they were to find the swashbuckler's body and recover her, if they were to find Sydney herself, they would need to act quickly, before their presence on the island could possibly be discovered.

If Andrew's information was correct (which it almost certainly was,) then they were outnumbered – they had a hundred men, while the blockade of Armada clockworks stretched on for two hundred soldiers at the very least. They would need every available weapon that they could engineer – for otherwise, this situation would spell out their deaths, just like it had for Samantha and Jewel.

Speaking of which –

"Were you able to find out anything? You know, from the – "

"The corpse?" Andrew flinched, grimacing a little at even the sound of the word and the connotation that it held, while Zachary, on the other hand, did not seem to be bothered by it. "I was, actually – lots of things! It wasn't anything unexpected, though, you and Ben seemed to be pretty dead on."

"Dead on? About _what?"_

"You got the kneeling part right – there was stress on the tendons behind her kneecaps, and judging by where most of the decay was concentrated and where certain areas were exposed and compressed, she could have only fallen into that sort of position _from_ an initial kneel."

"You can tell all of _that?"_

Andrew was _astonished,_ to say the very least – he knew that Zachary was somewhat skilled when it came to knowledge and the diagnosis of various conditions and illnesses, as a major component of hoodoo was to drain your opponent's energy _through_ temporary versions of these conditions, but he had no idea that he could simply _see_ all of this from a half-decayed body.

"Oh, and there's something else – "

"Yeah?"

"But I think I'd better _show_ you."

Instantly, the musketeer's stomach flipped, and he paled – if it had anything to do with getting up close and personal with Samantha Hawkins' corpse, even as amazing of a _living_ person she had _once_ been, he wanted _none_ of it.

"Um…no thanks, I'd rather not."

"No, that wasn't a suggestion actually," Zachary said, almost smirking at him in that lazy, _infuriating_ manner that held hints of triumph here and there, "it's pretty important. I didn't tell you earlier because everyone was panicking about the _Fife,_ and then you went below decks and I didn't see you until now."

It was a fair point made, and Andrew couldn't bring himself to argue.

If it _benefited_ their effort…

However, Zachary had not even given him the time to express his reluctant approval before he grabbed him by the wrist, dragging him down to the rather large cabin that he had been given – of course, it was to allow for room for both Zachary himself and for the corpse that had been keeping him company for the last week.

They arrived at the door, and Andrew internally steeled himself – the decay, the stench of rotting flesh surely could not have gotten any _better._

Seeing this, the golden-eyed witchdoctor sighed in irritation.

"Will you _calm down?_ It's not as bad as you think."

Again, he had not even waited a single second for Andrew to acknowledge, pushing open the door to his cabin and shoving him inside. And, much to his own surprise, the musketeer found that _it_ was not, as Zachary had said, nearly as bad as he had imagined.

The long table holding Samantha's corpse was barely more than five inches in front of him, and Zachary was careful in sliding past him, and then around the table so that he was standing by where her head was positioned. Although she was obviously motionless, Andrew could _not_ see any visible signs of decay, which did shock him – in fact, her corpse almost looked to be in _better_ condition than when they had found her.

"She looks good, doesn't she?"

"Well, I…I guess so. I expected her to be in worse condition, to be honest."

He waited for a snarky reply, but much to his surprise, he never received one.

"How did you…um… _preserve_ her…?" The question was awkwardly worded, but he could not think of any other way to say it – Samantha's corpse was obviously not soaked in chemicals, nor did the room smell of embalming fluid, but there was no visible deterioration.

"I used my magic – cleaned her up a bit." Zachary absentmindedly brushed some of her long, black hair back on the table from where a lock of it hung off the edge, "Although I don't really know how or _why_ it worked."

"Your… _magic?_ You mean hoodoo?"

As far as he knew, witchdoctors were not trained in this sort of thing – but then again, he really had no experience with Vadima's instruction, and was even less familiar with what went on in her master classes. At least when it came to the fundamental lessons, he had gotten some idea of the content learned via word of mouth, and playing the role of undertaker was definitely not included.

"Nope, I mean the weird green magic – the _other_ kind," He quickly corrected himself upon realizing the confusing nature of his statement, "The one that heals wounds and stuff."

Andrew nodded in acknowledgement, now having understood slightly more – he had known about Zachary's odd ability to heal injuries to himself and to others in a manner that was extremely different than those taught in the privateer classes, although neither of them had been able to identify a cause or source of any kind. However, that still did not explain how he had been able to use it on a _corpse._

Cautiously making his way around the table, Andrew looked over the body, reluctant to actually _touch_ it out of his _sensitivity_ to these matters. Yet, he could not find any traces of decay, not even when (much to his initial fear) Zachary had lifted up her eyelids, exposing her bright blue eyes – which were miraculously intact. It seemed awfully out of place, especially since eyeballs had a large fluid makeup and were often one of the first parts of a corpse to deteriorate.

As of now, Samantha had been dead for several weeks, perhaps a couple of months, even – there was no way of telling, not from _this_ body – and yet, she was in flawless condition. Rather than appearing as an eerie decoration at the staircase leading to Underhill's fortress, she looked to be simply asleep, undisturbed, untouched – save for the considerably sized bald area on her head, the dark, irregular scar outlining where the charge had been fired into her head.

There was no other explanation – Zachary had managed to restore a corpse, to reverse the decay that had undoubtedly been there when her body had first been found. He did not need to touch her shoulder to find that the muscles would be back in place and firm, just as they had been while she was alive, and anywhere else that the tissues had began to rot away was now made whole once again.

"She looks as if she's sleeping – not _dead…_ "

It was impossible to stop the single note of sadness from worming its way into his voice, but it was not his fault entirely – her death, the person behind it, its circumstances and means were undeniably tragic, and Andrew could practically hear his and Zachary's hearts sinking.

"You're just going to keep her here?

"I'm waiting on orders for what do to with her," Zachary said, now scooting his way back to the front of the room, "But until then, she's staying with me."

Andrew raised an eyebrow – he could not even _think_ of sleeping in the same room with a corpse, even one that looked so lifelike – that might have even made it worse.

"Oh, come on – it's not _that_ bad. You said it yourself, she doesn't even look like she's dead!"

 _That's even worse,_ Andrew internally replied, shivering.

"Doesn't this exhaust you? I know how using too much energy can affect – "

"It's fine, mostly," Zachary replied, shrugging his inquiry off, "She doesn't require a lot of maintenance now that the decay's gone – the first time was the hardest. Now I just have to make minor reconstructions once a day. I hardly even get dizzy."

The entire time, the witchdoctor had managed to maintain a calm, even tone, without the slightest hint of panic or of fear – something which Andrew could not quite comprehend, and something that he respected Zachary _immensely_ for. This separation of one's emotions from such _scientific_ work that could potentially become gruesome was a skill that was required of doctors and surgeons – it was mentally demanding and rarely found.

"You planning to do this to Jewel, too?" Andrew attempted to change the subject, trying to steer his mind away from this _lifelike_ corpse before him.

"To the other one? Probably. Once we find her body, that is."

Presumably, Jewel's corpse _and_ her murderer were located somewhere behind the massive blockade – which was the entire reason why Andrew, as well as the other ninety-seven guild members that were on board these ships had been slaving away for the past week.

"Well…are you _ready_ for it? I mean, I've heard that she was _literally_ torn apart – chances are that she won't be as… _convenient,_ if you plan to restore her."

Again, Zachary shrugged – this obviously had no impact on him.

"Yeah, I already knew that – I overheard everything that Hunter Chamberlain told Madame Vadima, remember? _I_ was the one who told _you,_ I'm pretty sure."

Inwardly, Andrew groaned – once again, he had chased the witchdoctor in an intellectual circle in his attempt to think ahead of him, and just like all of the other times, it was a complete and total failure. However, his words had sparked another train of thought –

"Hunter and Vadima – you think they survived?"

The last time they had seen the island, Armada clockworks had been pouring through the streets, massacring those who fought back left and right, almost every building in sight having been set ablaze, including the small, cramped house that they had stayed in together for years.

All that they had been able to hear as they sailed away towards Port Regal had been the screams of the dying, the air filled with heavy blankets of smoke and the horrible smell of burning flesh, doubtlessly from the residents that had been trapped within their own flaming homes.

"I don't know."

 _No, it's not likely._

Of course, Zachary would never allow himself to openly admit to any pessimism about anything, such was his way – even if it meant that the was denying the obvious.

 _And Brandon?_

 _Most likely dead as well._

Andrew had answered his own grim question before he had even allowed himself a chance to ask it aloud, saving Zachary from further disheartenment.

There was a knock on the door, and Andrew jumped, staggering forwards and nearly falling on top of the corpse, much to his absolute horror. Quickly collecting himself, he turned around and opened the door, one of the younger guild members standing behind it. He looked to be about twenty-three at most, and although he was tall, he was also thin, his red hair pulled back in a ponytail away from his face. Like Andrew's own, his hands were stained with a combination of gunpowder and oil.

"Mr. Sharp, Mr. Zest – " He acknowledged them both, nodding once in each of their directions, "I was sent down to retrieve you, Benjamin's called a meeting."

Most likely another progress check, Andrew thought, and he made for the door -

"I'll be there, I just need to grab the designs that he hasn't seen yet - "

"Oh, there's no need for that."

Andrew stopped in his tracks, confusion evident on his face.

"It's below decks – but the rest of them are coming too, from the other four ships. Instructions are to leave everything behind, otherwise there's no way in hell that we'll all fit. He trusts that you'll complete your own designs adequately from here on out."

Although the young man's words seemed to be of a slightly _imposing_ nature, his tone was not – and therefore it was most likely unintentional, resulting from the general cloud of stress that had settled over everyone lately.

 _And understandably so._

Much to their relief, even though the man had shot a few curious glances at the corpse over Andrew's shoulder, he had not questioned them. Without further delay, both of them had followed him out, through the impossibly narrow hallways, and into the cannon hold – the ceiling of which was low, but it was likely the only space that could possibly fit one hundred men – and _women_.

As Andrew and Zachary crouched on the floor, Benjamin standing directly before them, they had a clear view of the numerous guild members that were filing in. Of course, they had known that there would be a total of one hundred people embarking on this mission, but the numbers had not quite resonated with them as much as the sight of _all one hundred_ gathered in a single location, both men and women, humans and dogs alike.

It was only now that they noticed how this was a much larger number than there had been when Andrew had first found the underground meeting chamber in the Isle of Fetch. Then again, there was a large possibility that it was not the entirety of the guild that he had been speaking to. Given the surveillance that the Armada held over the Isle, the larger a gathering was, the more _dangerous_ it was, and there was also the matter of those who were possibly on the Isle of Dogs instead, or even on the mainland.

Marleybone did have quite a large number of female engineers – it made perfect sense.

As the last few three or four guild members came down below decks, every last one of them clustering around Benjamin, the floorboards barely visible amongst the numerous bodies, the attention within the hold now turned to the guild leader as they awaited their instructions.

"I trust that you have made considerate progress."

Silent nods could be seen throughout the crowd – much like Andrew, many of their faces were absolutely covered in the grime that was a combination of sweat, gunpowder, and oil, other chemicals likely among them as well. There was no doubt that every last _one_ of them had been working tirelessly, and there was no need for them to have brought their weapons in order to prove this.

"According to the numbers reported to me by the other Captains, we now possess approximately six hundred explosive devices, only one hundred and fifty of which have lethal power – I will now remind you that our mission is to _bypass_ the clockwork soldiers, not to destroy them."

There was a resounding _yes sir_ from his forces – which Benjamin himself had no doubt expected. As the leader of this faction, he was certain that there was not a single individual who did not see the true prowess and genius behind the technology and design of the clockwork soldiers. There was still much to be learned from them – and even though they would be prepared to destroy these soldiers in battle if necessary, the careless destruction of such valuable information was unnecessary.

"We will begin our attack two days from now, at midnight – "Benjamin continued, speaking clearly and concisely, as he seemed born to do, "four people from each ship are to stay behind. The rest will assemble on the docks. You are to arm yourselves adequately beforehand and await further instruction."

Bending down, Benjamin retrieved a large roll of parchment, now handing it to Andrew. The musketeer, getting the message, took it, holding it up as Benjamin rolled it open to reveal a large, hand-drawn yet _impossibly_ detailed map of the plundered tunnels.

"We are to enter through _here,_ from the jungle," he began, "and if the clockwork soldiers have not moved, we will be able to continue without stop until we reach _this_ corner, around which there will be a blockade of three hundred awaiting us."

A week ago, when Benjamin had first called a meeting in order to report his findings to his guild, they had feared that number – but now, there was not a trace of fear, nor terror or even nervous apprehension, to be found on the faces of any of those within the hold.

"We will engage them in combat," Benjamin paused, now looking over the eyes of his comrades. "But remember – as much as we may _hate_ them – "

The tension was _palpable_ then.

"We are _not_ to destroy them – we will retrieve the body of Jewel Zabra and return here."

Even with his face partially hidden behind the massive map, Andrew could feel the anger radiating out of nearly every single individual – but not towards their commander, no, towards the _puppet soldiers_ who had driven them into hiding, who had plagued and starved their nation with war. However, they trusted their leader more so than their own instincts, their own minds – and they would follow his orders without deviation, without flaw.

"Remember who they guard."

 _Sydney Underhill,_ once the heiress of the most powerful family of the Isle of Fetch – the same island that many of them were from, the same island that _Benjamin_ was from. Andrew had nearly forgotten - his cousin had been so successful in separating his emotions from his duties – that he had grown up alongside Underhill herself. Even now, he could not keep the pain entirely out of his voice, the shock and disbelief that he had not quite gotten over.

"Her soldiers are an extension…an extension of her reactions – tread carefully. She may have gone mad, but she…she is still… _human._ "

 _At least she once was before,_ Benjamin remembered.

* * *

 **I hope you enjoyed, and do be sure to leave a review!**

 **\- Severina**


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter 22: The Investigation**

"I was summoned here, Commander?"

Albus had entered the main room of the manor-turned-fortress which Prima had been using as a study of sorts without any noise, but she had expected him nevertheless. Without so much as even turning away from the window, the Supreme Commander extended a single hand, beckoning him closer.

He complied without hesitation.

"Captain Servus Albus, I have reason to believe that your stability is not at an optimal level."

She spoke quietly, with only just enough volume to be able to enunciate clearly, so that he could hear her even while still standing at least a foot behind her.

"Commander, I assure you, I am – "

"Do not try and refute me, Captain – you know just as well as I do that I am _correct."_

And she was.

As much as Albus did not want to concern his Commander even further with small, trival matters of his heightened alertness, and perhaps the semblance of paranoia that had been brought back by the memories associated with this island and the manor that sat upon the highest hill, Prima was still as undeniably observant as ever. This was only further helped by the fact that she had been there _with_ him, even though she had not been the one to directly endure the cruelty of the witchdoctor madwoman.

Then again, judging by the stories that she had told him, the records that she had written years ago, _Dangler_ had been holding back even then, to prevent her own body from giving out on her – and he had been spared from what could have possibly been a much, _much_ crueler fate.

Slowly turning, the edges of her long, heavy coat sweeping over the floor, Prima turned to face him.

"You are not at fault.

Albus tensed.

"It was the right decision to make, had I truly been terminated."

She was, of course, referring to how he had quite literally buried her alive in the cave that they had taken shelter in for God knew _how_ many weeks.

Had she truly been terminated, as he assumed she had been, it would only be logical to hide her frame, to hide the knowledge that was still potentially stored within her processor, forever frozen in time, never to be added to or revised again – had such knowledge, had such _power_ fallen into the hands of the enemy –

The consequences would have been disastrous.

Prima did not blame him, she did not think of his actions as anything other than logical – for although she could understand human emotions from decades of careful observation, she still could not _feel_ them.

"If there is a burden to be shouldered, it should be mine to take on."

Then, much more quietly –

"Perhaps if I had been more _insistent_ upon taking the Black Cadre as well…"

She would not have been _delayed_ , and she would have returned to the fortress –

Sydney Underhill and her crew would not have even had the chance to get _close_ to the Lord Kane.

But as of now, the damage done was irreversible, and the Supreme Commander knew it better than anyone else – the what-ifs and the if-I-hads were nothing more than possibilities, possibilities that had long since lost their chance to become reality. Thinking down these paths was often dangerous, and many had gotten lost in this manner.

And although she did not speak, in that moment, Prima made the decision to not become one of them.

Placing a single hand on the musketeer Captain's shoulder, the Supreme Commander slowly turned to once again face the window – even though most of the communication between her and Servus Albus had been silent, it had been _effective,_ and if perhaps nothing, he understood his own predicament a little more logically.

Just outside, a short distance away from the life fountain in the center of what had once been Avery's court, the hangings continued – ten at a time, just as she had commanded and initiated. The line had not grown any shorter, more survivors being found each and every day – although judging by the increasingly worse state that they were in, there would be an end to them in time.

Emaciated, wounded, dirtied – the condition of the prisoners decreased considerably from the front to the back of the line, as was expected, given that those at the back had been found and captured more recently.

Ten by ten –

Strung up, dropped, carried away, away to the pile of corpses that would be burned just before sundown to prevent from attracting the various scavenging creatures that no doubt still lived on the island. There was no one to mourn them, to give them their proper rites, to honor their name.

 _They have no honor to their names,_ Prima almost expected herself to think – but she did not, knowing full well that this was not the case. As inferior as the human race was, they were capable of acting with near-impossible courage and bravery for noble causes. It was, perhaps, the one advantage that they had over the clockworks, and it was also the reason that Prima had been allowed to retain her knowledge and observations of human emotions – in order to form, to _turn_ herself into a countermeasure.

The dull _thud_ could be heard from the gallows again and again, announcing ten more deaths, the termination of ten more flawed lives, ten more imperfect existences.

Vaguely, Prima thought back to the corpse that had been brought into this very room not too long ago –

The corpse of the swashbuckler, the one with those _ghastly_ bite marks marring his body in numerous locations. He had been screaming of the _Fife,_ she recalled, of how the _Fife_ still sailed, and even now, she could almost picture the terror in his voice, in his heart and mind. Determined to find out exactly _what_ he was speaking of, Prima had immediately ordered a list to be made of all ships that contained the word _Fife_ within their names.

As if on cue, as if her thoughts had been read and broadcasted through the processors of every soldier on this island, the smaller side door that lead to one of the other rooms within the once-manor opened, and Servus Carbo stepped through, saluting her before approaching, holding several sheets of parchment in one hand.

"The information, as you ordered, Commander."

The marine officer silently placed the papers on the large desk that Prima was usually seated behind, was as evident by the numerous maps that she had spread out overtop of it.

"That is all of it?"

"All that could be found, Commander."

The long train of her heavy, sweeping coat brushing over the floor behind her, Prima stepped forwards, snatching up the papers and then sitting down behind her desk with the utmost care, as if she was trying not to _ruin_ them.

Just as she had asked for, the papers listed the information of each and every ship with _Fife_ in its name – the full name, color, a description of the flag, and the names of the Captain and crew – which was the detail that she paid the _most_ attention to.

After all, ships were only dangerous when sailed by a dangerous Captain.

Most of the names held little to no significance to the Commander – Brian Alcott, Maria Richmond, Joseph Holbrook – given that she had never once heard of them before, they obviously had not proven themselves to be individual threats quite yet. Thus, Prima concluded that they were just starting out, only very young – and very _dead._

Indeed, Prima remembered, inwardly remembering the ten-man scaffold that lay just beyond the front doors of the fortress – any surviving pirates were to be executed without trial, their mere existence and location enough to warrant guilt by association. Even if some of them had never so much as fired a musket at an Armada clockwork, it was very unlikely that they would continue to uphold their pattern of nonaggression after they had seen the soldiers of Valencia systematically began to eliminate the entirety of their species.

 _The Admiral's Fife, the Quick Fife, the Silver Fife –_

The list went on and on and on, ships of various colors and sizes and Captains.

And then –

 _The Grand Fife –_

"Captained by _Sydney Underhill."_

Prima had only barely whispered, and she doubted that she had heard it herself – but it caught the full attention of her two subordinate officers, who had been standing on the opposite side of the room until now.

As if having received an unspoken call to attention, the both of them had immediately stiffened, and even from where she was sitting, Prima could see their fingers clench just a little more tightly around their respective weapons. Slowly, she turned back to the parchment, to the list of information that had suddenly become vitally, crucially important.

Crew consists of –

 _Samantha Hawkins (buccaneer), Jewel Zabra (swashbuckler)_

" _Lord Kane's assailants."_

In a sudden burst of tense, sharp movement, Prima flung the parchment onto her desk and stood, nearly toppling the chair that she had been sitting in over onto the floor – for she remembered them, their names, their _faces,_ as clear as the light of day.

Sydney Underhill, their captain, she remembered her written profile in Cadiz, she remembered all three of them – the grey-eyed, muscular-legged Marleybonian woman, the singular daughter of a fallen aristocracy, her predecessors having been eliminated long ago, the one who wielded the poleaxe and seized the command of Custos Quintus –

Jewel Zabra, who had been dragged in chains between her Captain and her crewmate, small of stature and impossibly fast, with narrow eyes and a long braid, taut like a deadly whip, as deadly as the daggers that she clenched –

And Samantha Hawkins, the bright eyed buccaneer, the one the Prima remembered the most vividly and _painfully._

She was the one that had struck down _her_ predecessor, the Lord Kane, the first and original Supreme Commander of the clockwork Armada.

Her strength was like that of a thousand men, she had been told, and unarmed, she had delivered a blow to the clockwork Commander that was so _impossibly_ severe, he had been robbed of his _ability to function_ forevermore.

Although Prima did not hold a _grudge_ against them, she did not seek vengeance, like a wounded and robbed human leader would – but she remembered, she remembered _too_ well, and that was perhaps the closest it would come.

Her two subordinate officers, Servus Albus and Servus Carbo, had not yet moved from their positions, even though it seemed that they were holding themselves back from doing so, refraining only because she had not given them orders, or perhaps proper _permission._

Concern, she realized, was close enough – they knew that whatever she had spoken of, whatever she had spent several minutes processing while she stood as still and as frozen as a stone statue, was of dreadful importance – and how right they truly were.

"Captain." The singular title, of course, had been meant to address the both of them, as they shared a rank.

The both of them turned their frames in to face her, feet together and torsos straight, ready to receive orders, commands, whatever request she would place towards them.

"There is to be an immediate tightening of security over the island – some of the skyway patrols should be called back, and the range of the remaining is to be decreased."

"At the cost of a decreased chance of finding the Resistance survivors, as well as the last remaining instructor and their patron?"

Of course it was Carbo who had spoken – Albus had remained primarily in charge of the affairs that took place _on_ the island, while his marine counterpart managed most of the current skyway patrols that Prima had first assembled and stationed after their takeover.

"With the chances that Sydney Underhill is near this region, it is likely that she will attempt to congregate with the remnants of the Resistance, wherever they happen to be stationed – and even with our patrols as they are, the chances of detecting any movement are low, given the geography of the surrounding land formations."

No rebuttal was made to this, of course, for it was not truly an argument as much as it was a series of limiting factors. Even though the takeover of the island had been successful, conditions were less than optimal – Prima had planned to remain stationed at the island as long as was necessary for events to stabilize under the control of the two Captains before returning to Cadiz, but so far, it seemed that such would not be occurring any time soon –

Now that _Sydney Underhill_ and her crew had supposedly entered the scene.

"Even if I were to _fortify_ the skyway patrols, there would still be too large of a window through which she could join with the remaining pirates – and if they were to unexpectedly launch an attack on the island to try and _reclaim_ it, we would be left open."

Open and _vulnerable._

"Therefore – "

"Therefore, Captain Albus, we shall reinforce the patrols on the island _immediately._ "

Yes, this would give them a much lower chance of finding and perhaps defeating Underhill or any of the other survivors within the skyways – but it would provide for a stronger defense, a more fortified foundation.

Outside, just beyond the staircase that led to the newly turned fortress, the line of those condemned stretched on just as endlessly, the abrupt, dull _thud_ of ten bodies dropping, ten necks snapping, ten lives ending having become as rhythmic and as routine as the beating of a man's own heart was to him. Prima now barely registered it – she would be concerned if it had _changed._

"I take it that this means you will not be returning to Valencia?" Albus had spoken with a relatively casual context, merely posing the question to his superior – or at least that was how _he_ perceived it.

Prima herself heard it as a plea.

 _Please stay with us._

 _We will fall –_

 _I will fall without you._

It was a reasonable concern to have, considering that the last time Albus had set foot on this island, he and his superior officer had been taken and held captive – he himself had been _tortured_ by the deranged witchdoctor, and even with the scars now littering his frame, even with the echo of her laughs still bouncing around within his processor from time to time, he knew she had been _merciful._

Indeed, it had been a _mercy_ that he had not shared the fate of Presidos Decimus, the marksman that the Supreme Commander had mentioned more times than one could possibly count while they were on that Polarian ship, while they desperately hung on to chance within that cave.

Even with his counterpart by his side, even with many times the numbers that they had been sent with all those years ago, even with the _Supreme Commander_ leading them forwards, Albus had initially doubted if their takeover would end in victory because of this – to him, it was miraculous that he stood where he stood now.

If she was to leave them –

To the musketeer officer, there was no _telling_ what would then transpire, for the foundation that she provided to their plans, to the governing of the survivors and of the patrols was impeccable, it was unfathomable beyond comprehension, for she was built and made to do so.

"I will not be, Captain Albus, not for the foreseeable future – the situation here is much too _variant_ for it to be safe."

This was bad news for them, of course, and Albus could sense this reasoning in his marine counterpart, but the conclusion that he reached was one that vaguely resembled relief, relief that she would not leave them, that she would not suddenly cut the line of support that she was knowingly or perhaps _unknowingly_ providing to them and to the maintenance of the colony.

It was almost enough to make him overlook the danger at hand – the reason _why_ she would be forced to stay, the sheer variant that was out there in the skyways.

Her attention was not focused on the two of them anymore – rather, she had returned to her desk, pushing aside several papers calmly but deliberately, finally finding the list of troops that remained. It was a log, a complied report of sorts that quickly and concisely stated which patrols, which squadrons were stationed where, and which soldiers they consisted of. She trailed her finger across the parchment, from one side, one column to the next, and Albus could practically hear her processor working, compiling, computing at a speed that was near incomprehensible to mortal beings, as well as to other clockworks who were not quite built with her cognitive capacity.

She stood straight, the order to redistribute the troops having been given some time ago by now – and it was impossible to miss what seemed to be a sense of steely resolve about the Supreme Commander.

 _She is here –_

 _Sydney Underhill is here._

Sydney Underhill, yes, and most likely her crew as well, _Samantha Hawkins_ and _Jewel Zabra –_

And, of course, the rogue clockwork, Custos Quintus, whose mere existence served as proof of the jeopardy that the Valencian Armada was at now.

"Supreme Commander?"

There was an abrupt, sharp, tearing noise, and Prima looked down to see that she had unknowingly ripped the report into several pieces, her hands clenched and shaking.

 _Sydney Underhill is here._

The last time that she had been seen, the Lord Kane had been brought to ruin, and chaos had reigned, for it had seemed impossible –

Prima would not underestimate the capabilities of this pirate – she would take _every_ action necessary to protect the Armada control of this island, to protect her _soldiers,_ her perfect, loyal soldiers, who would march to their termination, without flaw or hesitation, all _for the glory of the Armada._

And in that moment, she swore –

" _I will not fail you again."_

* * *

 **I do apologize for the delay - the site absolutely refused to upload my file yesterday, so I finally had to convert and then upload like that after trying to fix it several times.**

 **I hope you enjoyed, and do be sure to leave a review!**

 **\- Severina**


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter 23: Not Entirely Alone**

Leaning against the railing of the ship's deck, Decimus silently watched – omnipresent, like an overseer of sorts, as the crew rebuilt the ship before his eyes.

The mast had been damaged in the storm, and the sails had been torn as well, leaving the _Sapfir_ initially stranded in the abyss, one of the many gravity pockets of the spiral that was home to numerous ship wreckages and unfathomable amounts of debris –

 _Likely corpses as well,_ Decimus reasoned, but perhaps it was best not to envision this.

Mortals had never taken kindly to seeing or even talking of their own fallen.

Soon after he had been saved by the Captain from being _slaughtered_ by the crew, he had been _forced_ to agree to provide aid in rebuilding the ship under threat of death, or perhaps of abandonment, even though he had not seen any hint of landmass whatsoever since the storm. Although he had initially wished for termination when he had been stabbed by the warrior in the glacial wastelands, Decimus had found that he still feared it –

But this only made it inaccessible through _suicide,_ as the mortals called it – the killing of one's own self.

If he wished to die, it would have to be at the hands of another, which his internal programming prevented him from seeking out willingly.

The scavengers spoke to one another in their strange, rough, foreign dialect as they worked – attempting to repair what they could on the fallen mast, gathering the framing for the newly engineered sails, attaching one thing to the next – and although Decimus could not understand them, he could not help but to wonder.

Did they still wish to kill him, did they still hope for harm and pain and agony to befall him?

It was impossible to tell from the meager analysis that he had been able to perform – occasionally, one of them would glance at him and narrow their eyes, another would quickly look away and scoff roughly, as if in disgust or distaste, and yet some others seemed more curious than infuriated. Perhaps being infuriated was understandable – during the Polarian War, the world and its citizens had been devastated by the clockwork forces.

The curiosity, however, was a different story – it seemed odd that these particular humans did not react to the danger, or the threat, or whatever it was that had driven their comrades to a point of fury.

Perhaps they had truly acknowledged that he was crucial to their survival, even though many of them still seemed reluctant to accept this.

The others wished him gone –

The others wished him dead. Thinking it over again a second time had not made it any easier to process, and it only resulted in that same heightened sense of alertness, that same panic. He had tried to suppress it, he had tried to focus on the task at hand – the overseeing of the repairs – but it was nearly _impossible,_ with this lurking, omnipresent –

"Everything is well?"

Vladimir was in front of him, looking down upon him – although Decimus was tall, the Polarian was _taller –_ with something that resembled concern, and the marksman realized that his legs had nearly gone slack, that he had somehow just barely managed to balance the weight of his lithe frame atop of them.

The alertness, the panic – it was draining, it was exhausting, and it never relented – this was yet another one of the effects that it had upon his function.

"A-affirmative, the repairs – "

"I meant with _you._ "

Decimus froze.

He was never asked about his own being, save for when the Commodore had spoken to him so long ago, when she had protected him if only for that short period of time before she had been lost to the ice.

No, he had almost instinctively replied, _negative,_ all is not well – there were a multitude of things wrong about his function, his process, every aspect of his being – but how could he even _begin_ to list them, he thought, as there were so many –

As it turned out, he did not have to.

At that exact moment, a flash of movement over Vladimir's shoulder had caught his eye, and he leaned sideways so that he could see around him, so that he could see it better –

"Decimus…? What is it?"

But it was then that he had _realized_ what it was, and he had nearly backed himself off of the side of the ship and into the abyss out of _fear_ had it not been for the edge of the railing that was now pressing into his lower back.

Raising a shaking hand, he pointed.

" _They are everywhere."_

The clockwork's own muted panic now jumping almost directly into the scavenger's blue eyes, Vladimir spun around on his heel, gaze darting to and fro, his heart in his mouth – _what had he seen?_

And there, on the deck, just thirty feet away, was his answer.

 _Maggots._

Wriggling, writhing, disgusting creatures – pouring onto the decks from the edges of the ship like water, like _waves,_ by the _thousands_ , and Vladimir did not realize that he had _screamed_ until the rest of the crew had turned and looked and shouted as well, scrambling to get away from what seemed like an endless mass of white –

But some of them were not quite fast _enough,_ not faster than the alarmingly high rate that the creatures were appearing on the deck, and as Vladimir watched, now having backed himself into the railing alongside Decimus, they fell to their knees, crying out and screaming to God in their native tongue as they beat at their own bodies, trying to shake the parasites from their clothes, their hair, disjointed sections of the maggots' bodies falling from their sleeves as they were crushed.

" _Get them off, God, PLEASE, get them OFF!"_

It was as if the ship itself had been immersed in a tidal wave of these creatures –

Decimus himself felt them slithering up his legs, into his boots, and he swatted at them with his hands, doing _anything_ that he could to fling the white, slimy worms off of him –

Although he was not human himself, he had enough programmed knowledge to know that these creatures, usually spawned in mass but never like _this,_ were associated with rot, rot and decay and _death._ Vladimir took the wide, bladed weapon from his back and swung at the ground, he shook his own limbs and spun wildly, having fallen to the same frenzy as the rest of the crew.

" _Work of the devil!"_

" _God Almighty, we pray – "_

And among them all, a female voice – that very same voice that now made the clockwork desperately _plead_ for help, for safety, for _anything_ to get away from the _laughter_ that was now echoing in the air around them, and clearly, it was not just within his head – the crew could hear it too, he could tell by their sudden paling, by the widening of their eyes as they looked at each other and realized that they were in fact truly in hell.

" _Please, PLEASE don't let her take me back - !"_

He had nearly fallen into Vladimir's blade, the fear fueled Polarian had not stopped even for him – and perhaps being ended there would have been a mercy as of now, but he had no time to think upon this any further.

Not now that dead, cadaverous, skeletal hands were gripping the edges of the ship, their numbers increasing by the second.

" _I've got you!"_

There had been that single, whimsical taunt – and then those hands had revealed themselves as being connected to rotting, decaying arms, that were connected to the swollen and discolored _bodies_ of what must have been at least _thirty_ dead sailors, of various origins and species, some human and some wolf, the faded, tattered clothing from Mooshu and Polaris and even from Valencia, upon the one unicorn with half of a horn left and a festering hole in place of the eyes, and these hellish resurrections had not hesitated for a _single_ second before rushing at them, some bearing arms, others charging blindly forwards.

 _I've GOT you now I've got you –_

Someone had tossed Decimus a lightweight blade of medium length and he brought it up only just in time to block the swing of what had _once_ been a Resistance pirate before darting away, his movements kicking up _piles_ of the wriggling maggots, some of them falling into his boots and becoming crushed beneath his feet.

"This is her work, it's _hers,_ she's done this!"

His words, however, had fallen on deaf ears – it was obvious that the crew could _hear_ Dangler's disembodied, shrill laughter, yes, as was evident by how they continued to look up in bewilderment, but a great majority of them were entirely occupied with trying to fend off the undead battalion that had been raised from the very abyss itself.

Next to him, Aleks chopped off the head of a gruesomely bloated human corpse, only for it to explode in a shower of rotten flesh and wriggling insects that caused Decimus himself to feel the same paralysis that so many humans experienced when in terror. Instinctively, the clockwork marksman moved closer to the captain – if this truly was Dangler's work, she had likely targeted him, and this was his safest chance, here –

However, much to the shock of all on board, once the several few that had risen were cut down, there were no more.

Rather, it was simply them – them and the twice-dead corpses and the mass of parasites that seemed to _coat_ the very deck itself.

That was when the pain had struck.

A ripping, white-hot, _blinding_ pain that brought Decimus to his knees, his weapon clattering to the ground as he tore at his torso with both hands, through the fabric of his uniform jacket and shirt until he could feel blood seeping out of him and into the layer of bandages beneath, only then realizing that he had torn open his wound, but still not stopping there, just barely managing to open the obstructing layers of clothing until he found the _source_ of it all.

Maggots.

More of them.

 _Inside_ of his wound.

Somehow, a handful of them had managed to crawl _into_ his clothing and underneath the layer of tightly-wound bandages, and were now attempting to _drill_ into the thin flesh-metal that was justbarely healed, obviously having been drawn to the areas of the wound that were still open.

He could not quite _scream,_ the response was nowhere near as immediate to clockworks as it was to humans, but that did not stop him from flying into a frenzy, scratching and _clawing_ at his torso, slamming his fists into his own chest to smash the creatures until the repulsive wriggling movement beneath the bandages ceased entirely, leaving Decimus on his knees and hyperventilating, his hands coated in his own blood.

As he slowly looked up, the marksman found that amidst all of this, the parasites had receded almost entirely, a few of the crew kicking the last few of them off of the edges. Some of them, obviously _disturbed_ by what they had just witnessed, were opening their own jackets and shirts, running hands over torsos and checking _themselves_ for any of the creatures, for wounds that they could have hidden in.

Amidst this, Decimus felt an arm seize his, pulling him to his feet and immediately leading him away.

" _Damn_ it, quickly!"

The marksman had not quite registered that it was Vladimir until he had heard his voice, blindly following him back to his cabin, only looking down at himself after the door had swung shut behind him.

It was just like when he had first been stabbed.

All at once, everything had come undone.

Moving quickly, frantically, eyes wide with fear and face pale with shock, Vladimir pushed Decimus to lie flat atop the box bed in an attempt to slow the bleeding as the bandages that had been wound around his chest, once just barely stained, became soaked to the point that they were nearly _black._

He struggled against Vladimir's grip, the powerful arm across his chest pinning him down – he didn't want this, this wasn't _safe,_ he had just seen her work - !

 _She is dead –_

 _Yet she is here!_

He had not _wanted_ to make it difficult for Vladimir, patching up the re-torn stab wound again, but it was not his choice – Decimus was not acting of his own accord as he thrashed wildly against the force keeping him here, here where _she_ could find him!

He had to run, no, he _couldn't_ stay here, stay _still,_ he had to run and hide –

Beside him, with one arm still across Decimus' blood-soaked torso to hold him down, Vladimir knelt awkwardly to the ground, trying to find some of the medical supplies that had been left unharmed from the massive storm and eventually emerging triumphant with a few handfuls of bandages, as well as a spool of black thread and a thin needle.

He had not tried to stitch the wound initially, but seeing the state that the marksman was in now, perhaps that had been a poor decision.

Eventually, Decimus had found himself nearly paralyzed – wanting to move, but not _able_ to as the Polarian repeated the same process from before, cleaning the re-opened wound, disinfecting it with the alcohol that was left, and _sewing_ the wound shut, the needle easily passing through the thin layer of that strange metal-flesh that seemed so _realistic,_ almost human-like –

But he was not human.

It was something that Vladimir had difficulty reminding himself of, sometimes – especially since he acted so much more variant than the rest of the other soldiers that he had seen.

He had not known it was possible, for a clockwork to display _fear._

The wound had not been torn _all_ the way open – the very edges were still partially closed, the silver-grey scarring already visible – but Vladimir pulled the thread through the entirety of it anyways, stitching even the healed regions over again. If Decimus had managed to reopen a part of it, who was to say that these areas were not at risk as well?

Surprisingly, the clockwork marksman had remained silent throughout the whole ordeal, but it quickly became clear that he was nowhere near at ease.

Rather, his frame was tense – alert, Vladimir could _feel_ it by how rigid he was as he finally wrapped the length of bandages around his torso once more, the stitching having stopped the bleeding, for the most part, quite well.

"That was close."

The clockwork didn't acknowledge – Vladimir wasn't surprised.

He was still somewhat shaken, quite obviously, from the events that had transpired on deck – his hands had moved instantly to the covered wound, and had Vladimir not grabbed his wrists at that exact moment, he would have clawed his nails across his torso again, attempting to rip open the wound that had nearly terminated his function.

 _Is he trying to die?_

The thought had never quite crossed the Polarian's mind until now.

" _I must get away."_

Decimus' words were barely above a whisper – although it was hard to tell whether this was because he was trying to remain _stable,_ or simply because he did not have it within him to speak any louder.

Regardless, Vladimir was still confused.

"There's nowhere to go, Decimus. Nowhere. This is an _abyss._ Outside of this ship, there's nothing but blackness.

"And _her._ "

The scavenger was rather put off by this, at first, as the statement was so _general –_ but then he had remembered what Decimus had told him about Dangler, the mad witchdoctor who had captured him and _tortured_ him for years, and it made a little more sense.

"But you're _away_ from her now. She can't find you here."

It was what he had told him when he had first brought him aboard the ship and wiped the blood away from the stab wound that had nearly _terminated_ him, he could only hope that it would succeed in _calming_ him, for the lack of a better word – emotions could not quite apply to clockworks.

However, this did nothing of the sort – instead, Decimus had tensed, attempting to sit bolt upright although Vladimir had quickly pushed him back down.

" _She can-!"_

"There is _nothing_ down here – nothing _alive!_ "

A deadly silence reigned over the air – it almost felt as if the voids in the clockwork marksman's mask were boring into his skull, and he resisted the urge to look away – _fear_ did not come naturally to creatures such as these, and he did not wish for anything to be lost in translation, as it was often said.

"She is here…she _…_ is _down here_..."

Decimus had pronounced each word as slowly, as precisely as he could – and it was impossible to miss the meaning now. Vladimir thought back to the wave of maggots that had swarmed over the ship, the gruesome corpses of the drowned sailors that had mindlessly hurled themselves at him and his crewmates, and to Decimus' words from many days ago – how he had described her as a _witch_ –

Yes, he remembered, they were called _witchdoctors_ on Skull Island - !

 _She's here, she's here!_

Decimus had uttered those _same_ words with that _same_ alertness that had come as close to fear without actually _becoming_ fear – enough to make Vladimir consider it equivalent – but he had thought him paranoid, or whatever the clockwork equivalent of it was, for it seemed impossible that there was _another being_ down here, _alive!_

Yet, it all made perfect sense – the otherworldly power that Decimus had described _Dangler_ to have, her cruelty, her sadism, and this _onslaught_ that had just taken place –

Vladimir could not bring himself to dismiss Decimus' words this time, to choke out false reassurances.

 _She is here,_ he finally realized, his blood turning to ice in his veins - and this was only ever the beginning.

* * *

 **I hope you enjoyed, and do be sure to leave a review!**

 **\- Severina**


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter 24: Contact**

"Breathe in, sir – "

" _AAAGH!"_

Thrashing wildly, Hunter strained against the grip of the several pirates holding him down onto the medical cot as one of the privateers – who was obviously somewhat skilled in medicine – pressed an alcohol-soaked rag to the enormous bite wound on the exposed part of his leg. It was all he could do to keep from _sobbing,_ for the wound burned from more than just the spirits –

 _There has to be some kind of poison-!_

His leg felt as if it was burning from the inside out, as if his blood had suddenly been turned to acid – it was every symptom of venom, of toxin in his system that he had ever heard of, and the serrated edges of that _creature's_ sharp teeth had only made it worse.

Luckily, the two acting healers did not wish to prolong his pain, and they worked quickly, assessing the wound to the best of their ability before dressing and binding it – Hunter would not blame them if they had not been able to _identify_ what exact condition his leg was in.

The cause of it was not exactly something that was _usually_ seen in the skyways.

They did not question him, only working faster – one of them – the woman – had given him liquor earlier, in hopes of numbing the pain, as the survivors had only been left with the basics to fashion crude medical kits from.

Hunter was still unable to speak, of course, he was too busy _screaming_ , even though his own mind had already disconnected long ago.

But it was _what_ he was screaming that was frightening.

" _SHE'S ON THE SHIP, SHE'S HERE!"_

"Sir, we've called for – "

" _SHE…SHE WAS IN THE TUNNELS…BUT SHE'S…SHE'S HERE, I SAW THE BODIES, I SAW THE CORPSES…!"_

Gasping, Hunter clenched his fists against the pain, desperately trying to catch his breath, his forehead soaked with sweat.

" _God, there were so many…"_

His voice was hoarse by now, and his throat burned from the alcohol as his vision slowly came back into focus. Vaguely, he could hear the two privateers talking to him, to each other, their voices incomprehensible, muffled –

 _Has Madame Vadima been notified?_

 _She's coming as soon as possible, I'm pretty sure._

Although they were certainly _attempting_ to sound as if they had remained calm and collected, Hunter could still hear the strain, the stress in their voices as they cleaned off their bloodied hands, as they leaned over him to monitor the wound and check his pulse, and Hunter could not scream any more, the breath was gone from his lungs.

The door opened, and Vadima entered.

"He's stable for now, Madame – but he's lost a lot of blood."

She did not respond, however, instead starting directly for him, and he tried to sit up straight, but Vadima was quick to push Hunter flat on his back again, instead taking a seat on the wooden chair next to the single cot.

Looking over his leg, she had only _started_ to reach towards the bandaged wound before he had thrashed _wildly,_ trying to twitch away from her –

" _Don't touch it!"_

Vadima stopped.

"Is it just like the others?"

 _The other victims._

Hunter knew. The same as the girl, as Evangeline, she was asking, the same as the one survivor that had managed to drag himself back to Skull Island before it was overrun by the Armada?

He nodded, and she met his gaze evenly. Somehow, this surprised him. Why was she not _terrified,_ he wondered? Why was she not screaming in fear, as he had, as the musketeers had before they were torn to pieces, as Evangeline and her brothers had?

Instead, she only reacted with _interest._

"A bite wound?"

Hunter's mouth went dry and he could not answer, but the two privateers had confirmed it, telling her everything they knew about the severity, depth, and size of the wound as well – but she was more _intrigued_ than horrified, more _fascinated_ than frightened even though one of her very own had nearly died.

It was rather disturbing to observe, especially since it reminded him of Dangler herself, to a degree – how she would take such an _interest_ in her own torn flesh whenever she accidentally cut herself on shattered glass, how she would jab her own bruises with her fingers with the same air of a child skewering an insect on a stick.

Nevertheless, he was quick to brush it off – it was his mind, it was all his mind, he told himself, it was his mind in mourning, and there were other things to focus on, there was danger at hand.

 _It is here, SHE is here, Underhill –_

 _Warn them! Warn them!  
_

His hands curling around the edge of the cot, he struggled against the pain that had dulled, but was still undeniably _present,_ his tongue seemingly having turned to _stone_ until now.

" _M-mada-ame, it was h-her!"_

"Oh?" Vadima answered in an almost _poised_ manner, turning her head ever so slightly towards him as the beads woven into her hair clacked against each other. _"Her?_ Surely you are not referring to – "

 _Not Dangler._

"Underhill…to _Underhill_ , it was her…! She killed them all…!"

Vadima's eyes narrowed.

" _Impossible."_

"But it…it _was,_ I saw her – "

"You said she remained in the tunnels."

"She must have _left,_ then - ! And her mouth – I remember her mouth – she didn't even look _human,_ and she…she _ripped_ the others apart – "

"How many others?"

"Eight, t-there were…and she…she had _more_ on her ship, they were _everywhere!_ "

"What was – "

" _Corpses!"_

Hunter's entire frame was soaked with sweat – he had not been this terrified, this _frantic_ in his entire life.

What he had just seen –

It wasn't human. That was simply impossible.

Judging by the look on the witchdoctor trainer's face, she was thinking the exact same thing – she was partially alarmed, partially fascinated, and extremely skeptical but _scared_ nevertheless, even though she was doing quite a decent job of refusing to let it show.

"How…how can this be…?"

"I-I don't _know,_ she… _that…_ it wasn't _human,_ it was – "

Demonic. Possessed. Nightmarish. Born from the depths of hell itself.

But it was then that the door was flung open a second time to reveal yet another musketeer, this one substantially younger than Hunter himself, his face reddened from the winds – he was most obviously one of the scouts that had volunteered to monitor the movement of the Armada ships stationed at the island.

"Sir, apologies for the intrusion – this came for you."

"F-for…for me…?"

In response, the young man held out a small envelope smudged with gunpowder.

"It's from Marleybone, sir. From a Mr. Spinnaker – "

But that was all that Hunter needed to hear before he abruptly leaned forwards and snatched the letter out of his hands, much to the shock of the boy.

"That's all, then – you're dismissed."

The musketeer didn't think twice – not daring to intrude on the Resistance Leader when he had just been obviously _wounded,_ he darted out of the cabin, his footsteps gradually fading into silence.

Only then did Hunter open the letter – it had been sealed with some sort of adhesive that was unusually strong, and he had to take care not to rip the contents.

Spinnaker. Benjamin Spinnaker.

The name was familiar, yes – his father had been an expert on all sorts of weapons, particularly firearms, before the war had broken out. Of course, Hunter had never gone back to Marleybone to confirm, but after the Isle of Fetch had been taken, rumors of an underground arms guild had started to fly about.

It would make sense that he – the likely leader of this guild, knowing his family history and specialty – would contact the Skull Island resistance branch now, if word of the Armada's takeover had made it to the other worlds.

Unfolding the envelope, Hunter edged himself closer to the oil lamp on the small table that was just two feet away from him, scanning over the urgent, but controlled handwriting –

 _Mr. Chamberlain,_ he read, almost able to envision the authoritative voice befitting of a leader, _The Arms Guild of Marleybone has assembled._

 _They are together then,_ Hunter realized – having once lived in Marleybone, he knew full well that a group that operated underground, such as they did after the takeover of the Armada, never lived in close proximity to one another – it minimized loss, risk and damage.

But they were together, they were gathered now – across the land, every weapons master had combined their skills under Spinnaker.

As Hunter continued to read, he learned more of the recent happenings of the guild; how they had been alerted to the takeover of Skull Island by Andrew Sharp and Zachary Zest –

 _Zachary Zest, the witchdoctor at the door –_

-how the two of them had _also_ told him of the deaths of Samantha Hawkins and Jewel Zabra, of Sydney Underhill's descent into madness, of her power craze and her clockwork forces, and how they were now _docked_ at the Isle of Doom, readying weapons to launch an assault on the clockwork forces within the tunnels.

And then another sentence, which seemed to stand out more than any other -

 _We have recovered the corpse of Samantha Hawkins._

It was almost too much for Hunter to take in, to comprehend, especially given that he had just narrowly escaped _joining_ Samantha in death, killed by the same woman, _the grey-eyed woman._

However, they had not been able to locate either Jewel or Sydney, who were presumably – according to the letter – in the innermost chamber, which they were blocked from by a massive wall of clockwork soldiers.

It was on these soldiers that the assault would be launched, the letter specified, as each and every member of the guild had spent the last two weeks tirelessly making explosives and other such stunning weapons, intending to bypass them rather than defeat them because there were one hundred of them against three hundred clockwork soldiers –

But if they got to their _Commander,_ then Sydney's soldiers would not dare to attack – it would put _her_ at much too great of a risk, Benjamin had reasoned.

It was a risky wager, that much he did acknowledge, but this was immediately followed by a statement insisting that it _was_ a risk the guild was willing to take.

 _We plan to eventually confront Sydney Underhill –_

"But she's _here._ "

Hunter had spoken softly, solely to himself, and Vadima edged closer, trying to hear him better –

"What is he speaking of?"

"They plan to attack _Sydney..._ and…and I-"

"She just killed _eight_ of ours!"

"They said she was sealed in the tunnels!"

"And you were just _bitten_ by her! On _her_ ship!"

"That she _abandoned!"_ Hunter countered – he was not even sure, by now, of _what_ point he was arguing – but this simply did not make any _sense,_ everything that he saw and everything that _Benjamin_ had seen contradicted each other: Sydney was here, Sydney was in the tunnels, the _Fife_ was abandoned, the _Fife_ still sails –

 _The Fife still sails! The Fife still sails, God HELP us!_

"The messenger – where is he?"

"The one who was just here, sir?" One of the privateers answered, stepping forwards with obvious confusion –

"Yes, yes, obviously, go _get_ him!"

The girl ran out of the room.

"We must _think,_ Hunter – what does this _mean?_ "

"I don't _know_ what it means, but he doesn't…he doesn't _know_ what just attacked me, she's killed _dozens,_ and…and if his crew tries to charge her and her _forces-!"_

"They are set to attack in a matter of _days,_ she cannot possibly get there in that time, not before they do!"

"And u-usually, it would not be _possible_ for a woman's jaw to have six rows of _teeth_ and for her eyes to turn black and red the moment someone steps foot on her ship, but it _happened!_ We can't _rely_ on what's _possible_ anymore!"

The second privateer had been effectively stunned stiff, and he stood frozen, his eyes wide – but Vadima was hardly affected.

" _Interesting."_

The scattered, frantic footsteps announced the re-arrival of the first privateer, with the musketeer messenger following her closely, both of them out of breath, obviously having run across the decks of many connected ships.

"Sir…! I've got him – "

"I need a message sent back to the Marleybone ship," Hunter snapped, moving to stand up – only for the second privateer to again push him down.

"Sir, your wound, you'll agitate it – "

Luckily, Vadima had been a step ahead of the both of them, and quickly pulled a sheet of parchment and a pen from one of the numerous pockets of her dress – she usually kept such things with her during lessons, but as of now, this would be its purpose. Lining them up on the table next to him, she stepped back as Hunter angled himself carefully, trying not to move his wounded leg too terribly as he took the pen in hand and hastily scrawled out a message, his handwriting shaky, far less controlled than usual.

 _Sydney Underhill is not in the tunnels, she has her ship, she sails her ship -_

 _She has killed dozens, she is dangerous, she is inhuman -  
_

 _I highly advise against coming into contact with her at ANY point._

Hunter's jaw was clenched throughout the entire ordeal, the pain of the wound and the alcohol still searing his veins, the memory of her serrated teeth was still ever-present as he sealed the letter shut, handing it to the musketeer.

"They should still be in the same location – by the Isle."

"Will do, sir-!"

Hunter had not even had time to thank him for risking his life a _second_ time – he had already run off.

He could only hope that the message would get to Benjamin Spinnaker before Sydney could.

* * *

 **I hope you enjoyed, and do be sure to leave a review!**

 **\- Severina**


	25. Chapter 25

**Chapter 25: The Central Chamber**

With their footsteps nearly silent, each and every one of them care not to breathe too loud or move too quickly or make any sort of disturbance in any sort of way, Benjamin's men approached the staircase of the pyramid.

One by one, they passed by the stone slab that Samantha Hawkins' corpse had been found on, the dried blood that had pooled underneath her head still present. It was quite _eerie,_ especially to Zachary himself, who slept in the corner of the same room where her body had been held.

It only served to remind him, once again, that she was _dead_ – he had nearly managed to convince himself otherwise.

The guild members had been separated into two main clusters, one under the command of Benjamin himself, the other led by Andrew – there had been no opposition to this, naturally, not questioning their leader's intent and method whatsoever even if they did not quite fully understand it yet.

They ascended separately, but without much effort to remain hidden – if nothing had changed since the last time, which was almost _certain,_ then the soldiers would be entirely concentrated in that very same blockade – as long as they made no great noise, going undetected would be easy.

The soldiers had been given one order – to _defend._ And although no forces other than they and their commander had been present within these tunnels after the death of Underhill's crew, that was about to change _very_ soon.

Continuing to traverse through the tunnels, across the bridge and into the labyrinth, they readied their weapons – explosives and smoke bombs and chain bombs and everything of that nature that was possibly imaginable. Benjamin held up one hand to halt them, having recognized the corner that the blockade lay just around.

It was time for the second part of the plan.

All at once, in a sudden flash of movement triggered by Benjamin's signal, they launched their explosives towards the walls of the tunnel, immediately scattering afterwards and taking cover in various locations as debris and dust rained down, as the air before them became so thick that it was impossible for Andrew to see his hand in front of his face.

" _This way!"_ Benjamin hissed, just a few feet to his left, and Andrew wasted no time in blindly following the voice and the soft footsteps that accompanied it.

After all, he had next to _no_ idea what direction he was heading in at the moment, and given that Benjamin had lived in a war zone, he likely had more _experience_ with these sorts of situations.

Likewise, Zachary, as well as a small group of about five more men who had already been selected prior to the mission quickly followed, their meticulous planning making up for their complete lack of vision, and to some degree, hearing as well as the clockwork forces making up the blockade just around the corner began to disperse, marching in smaller blocks down towards the source of the explosion.

It was not likely that they could see either, in this smoke and dust, but they certainly had more acute _hearing_ than the average man did.

Even now, the guild would have the odds stacked against them, unless _everything_ proceeded exactly according to plan, and his panic only increased as he realized that the clockworks were marching directly towards them.

" _Ben! They're coming – "_

" _Ssssh! This way!"_

Once again, Andrew found himself being grabbed by the collar of his coat and jerked roughly forwards, except that instead of continuing _down_ the hallway, he found that he had been pulled into an opening in the wall, just barely hidden behind an absolutely massive pile of debris. Zachary had followed close behind, as had the others, obviously having an advantage over him given that he was entirely reliant on his currently dirt-clogged glasses to be able to see _anything._

They waited in silence as the clockworks passed, their steps methodical and perfect – but then there was another series of explosives and a great deal of shouting from every direction as the guild members, men and women, human and dog alike, launched themselves into the fray, blanketed by the smoke, drawing the clockworks further into the inescapable chaos as more and more of them arrived, their steps frantic now and in no particular time.

They were rushing to protect their Commander, Andrew knew – that had been their order, and until now, there had not been any threat present, but now that Benjamin's guild had done so well in _creating_ one –

Their presumed orders would force them to seek out and _eradicate_ said threat.

Of course, that would never happen, not with the Marleybonians as invisible as they were – it was the perfect opportunity.

Finally convinced that the second part of the plan had been executed accordingly, Benjamin signaled them forwards, and they walked on – to Andrew's amazement, they were in yet a _smaller_ tunnel inside the walls of the main system itself, and it was large enough for them to stand upright, although not wide enough to allow more than two men to walk side to side without pressing shoulders.

Surely, if Jewel Zabra was in the central chamber, _she_ had gone this way as well – how else could she have, with the swarm of clockworks that patrolled the area?

"Sir, we're _blocked._ "

"We _are,_ Mr. Hughes?"

The man that had been walking just in front of Benjamin, a pistol cocked in his right hand, stepped back to allow the leader to investigate. Benjamin placed his hands in front of him, his fingers coming into contact with an immovable pile of debris, large chunks of rubble and rock.

"It's a _wall…_ the roof must have caved in here!"

"This is a dead end, then?" Andrew half-whispered, praying that this was not the answer – they had the guild behind them, their lives dependent on their entry into the central chamber!

"It looks like it – " Benjamin suddenly paused, his movements growing more frantic as he ran his hands up and down and sideways, over the area.

" _Wait a minute._ "

"Sir?"

"There's a space here – _here!_ Up over our heads, that must be how she got in!"

" _Up?!"_

"Up, yes, up, lift me up!" Benjamin whispered in somewhat of a hiss, keeping quiet enough to remain undetected and yet conveying authority at the same time as the man next to him, clearly confused but not wanting to disobey his superior, laced his fingers together and bent down slightly.

"Put your foot here, sir, I can lift you up about four feet or so – don't know how high the ceiling goes."

Not hesitating further, Benjamin did exactly so, immediately grasping for the edge of the six foot ledge as soon as he was lifted, easily pulling himself over before reaching his hand down, motioning to Andrew, as he was relatively light compared to the rest of them.

Together, the eight of them worked in this manner to slowly but surely get everyone onto the ledge, now being forced to crawl in a single file line, the rubble below them digging into their palms and kneecaps as they inched onwards.

When they finally saw light emerging from what was presumably the end of the tunnel system after what seemed like a cruelly stretched span of time, a collective sigh of relief could be _felt_ amongst the eight men – crawling like this for even a minute longer would have been nothing short of cruel.

One by one, with Benjamin leading the way, they slid down the now sloped pile of rubble, feeling the flat stones beneath them to ensure their own stable landing before standing up and following the guild leader out of the narrow crack in the wall, which was only wide enough to allow them to pass through once they had twisted themselves sideways.

Luckily, neither Andrew or Zachary were particularly bulky in build, and thus it had not been difficult for either of them.

Once their eyes had adjusted to the light, the eight men found that they were now standing in an enormous, high-ceilinged cave, the very centerpiece of it being a towering stone staircase that topped off with a long, wide platform that stretched back until the opposite wall. Its immense height was such that it was impossible to see what was upon it, but Benjamin could easily _guess._

This was a throne room.

Holding out his right hand to signal the others to stop, now falling silent as he listened intently for even the slightest disturbance.

Yet, much to his surprise, he found nothing.

Nothing – not even the sound of breathing, of movement, of fabric rustling, not any of the sounds that accompanied a human's presence – _Sydney's_ presence.

Beside them, the tunnel leading into the chamber was deserted, extending down only to off at a sharp right turn about two hundred feet down, preventing Benjamin from seeing any further. However, if there were soldiers just around the corner, he would have surely heard by now – the fight put up by the guild members was anything but silent, and judging by how he could hear next to _nothing_ at the moment, the battle was still quite far away from where they were.

This left the eight of them in the unguarded throne room – surely they would be more than a match for one woman, if she were to suddenly attack them.

Turning, Benjamin gestured towards Zachary.

"I need some kind of barrier over this tunnel entrance. Something that'll block the soldiers if they try to charge us – "

"On it!"

Having dashed over to the tunnel entrance with energy that amazed the rest of his comrades, Zachary planted his feet shoulder-width before raising his staff and conjuring up a large, translucent barrier that blocked off the entryway, a stream of blue-tinted energy continuously coming from the tip of his staff and feeding into the forcefield, expanding and fortifying it.

"Try to hurry, though – I can't do this forever!"

"Understood!" Benjamin called back, silently praying that the barrier would only ever be a precaution, that they would be able to escape before they were discovered and surrounded by three hundred clockwork soldiers, all of them stopping at nothing to defend their commander.

For now, the soldiers had been tricked – tricked into thinking that the threat to Sydney's life lay in the outer tunnels, with the guild members and gas bombs, when in reality, the biggest danger was in her throne room, right here, right now.

But they did not know how much longer this diversion would hold.

Leading the remaining six men away from the tunnel entrance, Benjamin started for the massive staircase, retrieving the pistol that had been strapped to his belt in preparation as he neared the foot of the staircase, only to be stopped by a bloodcurdling shout of pure _terror_ from one of his men.

"Are you _mad?! Quiet,_ or they'll kill us – "

"By your feet, sir, it's…"

The blood draining from his face, Benjamin braced himself and slowly looked down.

Just inches away from his feet was the bloodied, mutilated figure of a petite woman, her intestines and other internal organs strewn atop and about her in one massive, putrid mess, her entire decaying form nearly submerged in a pool of her own dried blood.

It was impossible for Benjamin to tell her eye color, both of her eyes had decayed and collapsed by now – but her hair was still there, the long black braid that laid just behind her head, solidified with her own coagulated blood.

" _A-andrew…it's Jewel…"_

But his cousin was not looking upon the corpse – instead, he was running away, dropping to his knees in the furthermost corner before becoming violently sick. Benjamin's own stomach gave a sympathetic roll.

 _Murdered her crew._

At least Samantha's death looked as if it had been relatively quick – but Jewel had suffered, she had suffered for _quite_ some time before the merciful embrace of death finally took her, he could see it even now, traces of the agony that she must have felt in her final moments.

"We…we'll take her back..."

Even now, his own words seemed distant to him, and he had to fight to stay conscious, to prevent the _terrifying_ state of her corpse, and the state of the enemy that this implied.

Sydney had done this with her bare hands.

Had he not known the surrounding circumstances when viewing her corpse for the first time, Benjamin would have guessed that she had been clawed to death by a wolf or a bear or some sort of other enormous animal.

 _No._

This was a human – a _woman –_ his very own childhood friend.

Slowly standing on shaky legs, Andrew made his way back over to the group, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand as he took up the rifle that was strapped across his back, his face still a rather sickly pallor.

"Ben…there's a throne up there, a…a giant stone throne…"

The guild leader swallowed hard.

"You think she's there?"

"Where _else_ would she be?"

His words carried a weight to them, and it was felt by the others as well – they had just seen the corpse of Sydney's victim, they had seen the fate that she had brought upon her own friend, her _sister,_ practically – and now another silent question was posed.

If she was here, what would she do to _them?_

Their numbers no longer mattered. She was here, and she was _clearly_ mad – mad and dangerous.

Knuckles white and palms clammy with terror, the seven of them – minus Zachary, who was maintaining the barrier – slowly ascended, led by Benjamin at the very forefront. The stairs were slippery and coated in the same hardened, dried blood, no doubt from Jewel's corpse, from the hands of her murderer –

Or perhaps it was from Sydney herself.

 _Has someone confronted her already –_

 _What became of them?_

As they climbed higher, the platform at the very top of the staircase began to become clear, as well as the throne positioned at the very edge of it. Although it was empty, it was possible to see that the platform most definitely extended for a good distance behind it, and it was almost _certain_ that Sydney was still here.

 _Is it certain?_

For what was most definitely not the first time during this mission, the doubts began to creep into Benjamin's mind – although this time they were louder than before, they were more demanding and imposing and convincing than before, and he had to fight, he had to fight _hard_ to ignore them with every ounce of will remaining in his body.

He had led them this far, his guild was counting on him, _Skull Island_ was counting on them to succeed.

Failure was out of the question here.

Stopping just before their heads would become visible overtop the platform, Benjamin listened carefully once again, for any sound, a breath, a whisper, perhaps hair sliding over fabric or flesh as Sydney turned her head.

Nothing, yet again – and Benjamin grew even more alarmed.

Swallowing hard, he called out – not loud enough to carry into the tunnels, but enough so that anyone standing upon the platform could have heard it.

"Sydney?"

No response.

"Sydney, are you there?"

Once again, the men waited for several seconds in silence – and then it seemed as if Benjamin had been wrong, as if Andrew and Zachary had been wrong, she was _not_ here, and perhaps she had _not_ murdered her crew –

But then, footsteps could be heard – soft, light footsteps, but they were footsteps nevertheless, and they were _approaching._

As if on cue, the men raised their weapons, steady and practiced hands keeping the barrels of their rifles and muskets steadily trained on the center of the platform, waiting for the madwoman to emerge, in all her tearstained, sunken eyed glory, hands permanently stained with the blood of her victims, nails grown out and broken –

But instead, they were greeted with the pale, porcelain face of an Armada musketeer.

An Armada musketeer with blue eyes that almost seemed to _emit_ light of their own, like diamonds, set in the place of the two black sockets that had once made the clockworks seem so detached, so cold and inhuman.

In his hands was a standard Armada rifle, the barrel of it pointed directly at Benjamin's chest.

" _My Commander wishes not to be disturbed."_

Benjamin looked over him, and noticed that his gloves were red and brown and black, with what almost seemed to be coagulated clumps of blood and something _else_ spread out over his fingers and the backs of his hands. Several flies buzzed around him, drawn to it, all of them having come from an area further back upon the platform that Benjamin could not quite see, still at least ten steps short of the top.

The musketeer did not pay any attention to the insects, his eyes trained directly upon Benjamin's own – although the guild leader could not help but notice the slight tremor, ever so subtle, that was slowly running through his frame, up and down and over and over.

"Is Sydney – "

"My Commander is exhausted. She is resting."

"Sydney, are you-?"

" _She is resting!"_

The clockwork's words were almost _hissed,_ they had been pronounced so harshly, and he thrust the barrel of his rifle towards Benjamin's head, as if to further emphasize them. Yet, what was the _most_ alarming aspect of this whole encounter was not the weapon in the guild leader's face, or even the corpse of Jewel Zabra, lying lifeless and rotting at the foot of the staircase – it was the fact that Sydney had not shown any kind of response.

He had not seen or heard anything that indicated her presence.

It would have been impossible, he knew, for her to leave the island if she had abandoned her ship before sealing herself away, as her ship was now _gone_ –

But then there was the sighting of the _Fife,_ of the ship, sailing through the skyways.

 _If she's in there, then what's sailing it?_

 _Is she truly here –_

 _Or is she aboard her ship?_

Suddenly, this uncertainty became the greatest danger of all.

Lunging forwards, Benjamin grabbed the barrel of the clockwork's rifle, the charge that he fired whizzing past his ear as he twisted the weapon sideways, pinning it to the soldier's chest and holding him fast – musketeers were made to be lightweight, not strong – as he finally reached the top of the platform, Andrew and the rest of his men following suit.

"What is _that?!"_

The barrels of their muskets and rifles and pistols were all pointed at the _thing_ that was lying just behind the throne, next to an enormous vanity table – the figure of a woman, clothed in black and gold and absolutely drenched in her own dried blood.

Even without looking at her face, they knew – _this_ was Sydney Underhill – and perhaps it was a good thing that they were able to tell so easily, for she no longer had a face to look at. Instead of pale, partially-decayed flesh, there was instead a festering, rotten, and blackened lump of flesh, one area indiscernible from the next as maggots wriggled in and out of the softened, putrefied mass, tunneling whichever way they so pleased.

" _She…she just…"_

The rusted blade still clenched in her right hand told all.

" _I implore you to leave my Commander be, she needs her – "_

"She's _dead!"_

" _LEAVE HER BE!"_

Shaking, Andrew turned to his cousin, pale and breathless all over again.

"Ben…Ben, please, let's just – "

" _SHE IS SLEEPING!"_ His voice having risen in high urgency, the soldier struggled harder against Benjamin's grip, fighting to break free, for _his Commander was in danger,_ with these strange men pointing weapons at her while she was _trying to rest –_

Oh, she _needed her rest!_

" _They're coming!"_ Zachary yelled from where he was standing, twisting his head over his shoulder, and the men atop of the platform froze, listening in horror as the sounds of mechanical marching drew nearer.

The soldiers were coming – even Benjamin himself had known that this diversion would not last infinitely.

" _Get Jewel and run!"_

"Sir, what about the – "

"Plans are changed! Zachary, hold on for as long as you can – you two, use your coats to carry her, and _don't leave anything behind!"_

He had been referring to Jewel's _internal organs,_ all in various states of decay, which were strewn about in her immediate area. With reluctance – but yet they did not _dare_ to disobey their leader – the two men that he had motioned to stripped themselves of their coats and vests, quickly but carefully wrapping the corpse, nudging _bits and pieces_ of the swashbuckler's corpse into their makeshift _bag_ as they fought to stay conscious.

This was _too much,_ this was _nightmarish, unimaginable –_

Already, the marines could be seen at the end of the tunnel stretch, having turned the last corner – Zachary was shaking where he stood, his shirt and vest soaked through with sweat as he grunted from the exertion required to maintain the shield.

" _Can't…hold this for…!"_

"Just a little longer, Zach, _please!_ "

The two members bearing Jewel's corpse had gone first, retreating back into the crack in the wall that they had entered from.

Benjamin's heart was in his throat.

"Now you, Andrew, _go!_ "

Grabbing the musketeer's shoulder, Benjamin forced him forwards, waiting until he had vanished into the crack before motioning to Zachary.

" _Now!"_

Thrusting his right arm forwards in a pitching motion, the witchdoctor forced the barrier towards the rushing wave of approaching clockwork soldiers, knocking the first few rows of them over before turning and sprinting towards Benjamin, fueled by pure adrenaline.

Luckily, even though maintaining the barrier had drained Zachary of a large amount of his energy, he was still an _incredibly_ fast sprinter when he needed to be. A wave of relief washed over Benjamin as he felt the soft _woosh_ of air that had been generated as the witchdoctor raced past him, disappearing after the rest of the men and the corpse of the swashbuckler that they were bearing.

Just before he darted after them as the clockwork soldiers began to pour into the central chamber, Benjamin cast one last look up at the top of the stone platform, where the clockwork soldier, the strange soldier with glassy blue eyes, was no longer visible – rather, only a sliver of his hunched form could be seen as he knelt by the unmoving form of his Commander.

His sleeping Commander.

Shivering, Benjamin swallowed down the horror that threatened to consume him, and ran.

* * *

 **Well, I'm finally back after my brief hiatus - things really haven't been going so well for me lately. I don't know yet if I'll be able to update for the next two Sundays because of marching band, but if I can, then I will.**

 **Thank you, and be sure to review!**

 **\- Severina**


	26. Chapter 26

**Chapter 26: An Alarming Awakening**

The putrid stench of death and decay still fresh in the air and forever in their minds, Benjamin and the rest of the men that had followed him into the cursed central chamber clambered back over the gangplank, relief washing over them all the moment that each of their feet touched the deck. Hundreds of clockwork soldiers rushing straight at them – it was rather difficult to imagine the swiftness with which their doom would have met them, if it were not for the incredible timing and luck of it all.

The two men who had carried Jewel's body had become pale and clammy, and looked as if they were about to faint. Andrew did not blame them. Even now, a thick cloud of flies was slowly beginning to gather over the corpse, which was loosely wrapped in several sacrificed jackets.

"Zachary," Benjamin managed to say in between gasps, "take her below."

The witchdoctor nodded, turning to the two unhappy bearers and signaling them to follow him before all three of them disappeared below decks.

" _That_ was a close call," Andrew said, shaking his head in bewilderment – they were on the ship, yet he still found himself astonished at his own survival. Benjamin nodded in agreement, the both of them clearly out of breath from having sprinted through miles and miles of jungle with a corpse in tow.

"Agreed…"

 _Brown, black rotting flesh, maggots tunneling –_

"And that soldier guarding her – he had _eyes,_ blue eyes – _how?"_

 _Bones visible beneath slipping sinew –_

 _This is Sydney Underhill._

Tears rose to his eyes and Benjamin turned away, hiding his vulnerability from his cousin.

Grey eyes, that was how he remembered her, forcefully curled hair and cumbersome skirts and a distaste for practically anything and everything that existed.

A fascination with machines, with weapons, with tactics and equations of war and victory.

Secret meetings in the alleyway near the workshop, dodging puddles and sneaking back, there and back, there and back –

And now she was there, she was _here,_ with empty sockets filled with rotting mush, with her harsh features carved away from her of her own will and action.

The guild leader's breath hitched in fear, in terror, in sadness –

 _How could she have descended so far?!_

"Sir, there's a…sir, are you all right…?"

Benjamin blinked quickly, bringing up one hand to swipe away the few tears that had actually fallen before raising his head to meet the eyes of a Marleybonian engineer, concern evident upon her face.

"I…I'm fine, what is it?"

Wordlessly, she held out an envelope to him, the back of it marked with an elaborate wax seal. It was unbroken, therefore the contents still remained unread, Benjamin noticed – and he gingerly took it from her, giving a single nod in thanks.

The engineer turned and started below decks. Benjamin waited until she was gone before examining the letter again. His full name had been written on the front in hurried handwriting.

"What is _that?"_ Andrew asked, leaning over his shoulder to get a better look.

"Not sure – but it's got the Chamberlain's seal on it."

"Chamberlain…Hunter?! That must mean he's still alive! And the Skull Island Resistance branch – it's there with him!"

His heart leaping in his chest (although he did not dare to outwardly show it), Benjamin slid his finger underneath the edge of the envelope and broke the seal, pulling out and unfolding the letter inside. However, not even a second after he had started to scan over it, the hope that had been building within him was quickly killed, only to be replaced with a growing, sickening sense of bewilderment and terror.

"It…it can't be…he says Sydney's still _alive._ "

" _Alive?!"_ Andrew spun around quickly, only half-sure of whether to believe this – they had just seen her dead in the tunnels, quite literally _defaced._

 _Maggots tunneling –_

She couldn't have been alive.

"But we just – "

" _I know._ But he says that her ship is still in the Skyways, and that she's on board – _listen_ , Andrew - ! She's killed _fifty_ of his men, she ripped them apart with her nails and _teeth!_ "

Against his own will, an alarmingly vivid image of the ex-privateer, chin and mouth and teeth covered in blood as she crouched over the corpse of an unmoving victim, began to materialize within his mind.

Yet, _this_ was impossible, he knew – or it should have been impossible, for they had seen her corpse, lying unmoving and rotting, and judging by the _state_ of it, she had been dead for quite some time.

"Ben – we _saw_ the _Fife,_ I remember! Before we went into the jungle – and we thought that it was abandoned!"

"But it can't…it can't _not_ be abandoned, she's in…in _there!"_ He spluttered, throwing an arm in the direction of the docks – yet, he was not entirely sure of his own words, not now, not anymore. It was impossible to tell what to believe.

"Ben, the letter says that she's _out there._ Hunter wouldn't lie – you _know_ that!"

The guild leader forfeited – his cousin did have a point. Hunter was now responsible for the lives of hundreds, perhaps thousands depending on the number that had managed to escape Prima's destructive wrath. He would not act selfishly, not now, when he had wordlessly sworn to keep his wits about him for the sake of those that needed him.

"Let's continue this in the cabin," Benjamin said, dropping his voice low, "any talk of things like… _this_ could unsettle the crew, if they overhear."

Andrew complied and fell silent until the cabin door had closed behind them, ensuring that nothing they talked of would unknowingly pass on to others.

"This is all very… _unusual,_ of course…" Benjamin muttered, keeping his voice low and muted even though they were both locked within the cabin, "But if we were to assume that _both_ of the circumstances were true – "

"You mean…seeing her corpse in the tunnels, _and_ believing Hunter's letter?"

"Exactly – what would be the explanation for this?"

And yet, even as the question left the guild leader's lips, he was not quite sure that he wanted to hear the answer – for even already, he had an inkling as to _what_ it was, and such things were usually native to nightmares and the hallucinations of the unfortunate.

"I'm not certain," Andrew began, the color draining slightly from his face, "but it is not… _unheard_ of for ships to become haunted."

"You mean that – that it's her _ghost_ who killed all of those people…?"

Ghosts were different.

She had to be _stopped,_ of course, that was evident, now that she was active and dangerous – but how would one kill something that was _already dead?_

It was as if Andrew seen through him and read the question as it passed through his head.

"We don't know yet – we won't know until we see it with our own eyes. But I'd ask Zachary if I were you – he's more _experienced_ in these areas."

. . . . . . . . . . . .

Zachary had wasted no time getting Jewel's body below decks – more so for the sake of the men carrying her body than for himself. The both of them looked as if they were about to faint at any given moment, hands slipping on the dampened jackets that they had wrapped and tied together around her body.

A length of partially-destroyed intestines was starting to bulge out from one of the openings in the fabric, and Zachary felt his gut wrench – which was most definitely _not_ something that happened often.

Striding past the door to his cabin – where Samantha's body lay stretched out upon a table – Zachary pushed open the door to the adjacent room, lighting the hanging lamp on the wall with a single snap-induced spark from his fingers before hurrying to dust off the table in the very center of the room.

Obviously this had used to be a storage closet of some sort – although judging from how much dust had accumulated, Zachary noticed, no one had used it in years.

"Just leave her there – carefully, _carefully!_ "

His words had no effect, however – the corpse was dumped unceremoniously upon the table, still bundled in the abandoned coats, before the two men had dashed from the room.

Zachary couldn't entirely blame them – the corpse smelled horrid, so much that even _he_ almost found it unbearable.

And yet, there was something that was undeniably sad about it – knowing that if he were to cut the ropes that held the jackets together, her corpse would spill out in piles and pieces, her heart stopped by her own Captain and closest friend, with her shipmate, Samantha, lying just twenty feet away in Zachary's cabin.

He had both of Sydney's victims here – he had scavenged the scraps that she had left in her wake.

Zachary had to fight himself then – he had to hold himself back from ripping the fabric away and pouring his energy into her mangled remains, trying to piece her together all at once, all right _now_ even though it would take _weeks,_ given the state she was in.

How he wished he could return her to the way that she had been when she was alive – it was as if repairing her wounds would bring her back, as if it would repair the pain that pierced her heart and deeper when she was torn apart by the one that she had trusted the most.

Forcing himself to look away from the corpse upon the table, he stiffly marched out of the room, instead retreating back into his cabin, where the reconstructed body of Samantha Hawkins was lying.

She had been returned to her prime state – all that was missing was a pulse and air in her lungs. Upon first glance, she might have seemed to be sleeping. Zachary placed a hand upon her shoulder and concentrated, channeling his own strange form of magic into her – it only ever took a little bit a day to hold off the process of decay from starting all over again.

However, this time, he did not draw away.

He did not want to. He wanted her to be sleeping, he wished that he could see her chest rise upon and down on his own rather than having to watch this unbearable stillness, her life snatched from her by her madwoman of a Captain.

 _I'm sorry, Samantha._

 _You deserved none of this._

 _Neither of you did._

Tears stung his eyes, and he furiously swiped them away.

He stood here before, with her eyes rotted and her flesh loose and disintegrating, and he had looked to the sky and prayed for a miracle, knowing full well that nothing would happen, even when something did, even when her wounds healed themselves and the decay was reversed.

How wondrous it was then, how monumental, how _groundbreaking –_

But now, it seemed almost cruel that it had happened at all – for Samantha was _that much closer_ to being alive, but she was not _quite_ there – and she never would be.

It would never be enough.

Remaining still, Zachary continued to channel his energy forwards, feeling her skin become firm underneath his fingers, muscle and sinew full restored once again.

 _Not enough._

A tear rolled down his cheek.

He had wasted his time, it seemed, trying to bring her _back,_ almost – and for what, he wondered, was it in denial of the fear that this had brought about, the fear that had infected each and every last one of the guild members, even though they were much too _proud_ to admit it?

The fear of their own turning on them – of Benjamin or Andrew or perhaps another throwing them to the ground and ripping them apart bare handed, just as Sydney had done.

A nightmare, this _couldn't_ be happening – but it was, and it was all too real, it was _far_ too real.

Unable to hold back the built up frustration and the guilt and the sadness and the _defiance_ that _this was the end,_ Zachary screamed wordlessly and poured every last ounce of his own energy into Samantha's corpse, feeling the strange magic drain his strength more and more and more, causing his vision to become blurry –

Until he blinked once and found himself suspended in midair, with the room and the table gone, with the walls gone, with Samantha's corpse gone.

Rather, Samantha _herself_ was there – floating, eyes open, but unresponsive.

 _Samantha,_ he tried to scream, but his voice had been silenced and she continued to stare dead ahead until he reached out and grabbed her hand, her _warm, living_ hand, upon which her head snapped down and she stared directly into his eyes for a second that felt as if it would last for an eternity before there was an enormous flash, enough to blind Zachary and make him cry out from the _pain_ of it all.

He opened his eyes again and he was back, he was standing in the room with his hand on Samantha's shoulder.

Nothing had changed.

 _But I touched her hand, and she was – !  
_

A hallucination, perhaps, he reasoned, shaking his head – he always _knew_ that this would get to him, but he had never anticipated it to be _quite_ this bad. _  
_

He withdrew his hand, looking sadly upon the corpse on the table as he panted shallowly, the sheer over usage of his own powers having drained him.

"I'm so… _sorry,_ Samantha…"

The witchdoctor had begun to turn away, he had just started for the door when he _heard it,_ so soft that it could have not happened, and he spun around quickly on his heels, eyes wide.

" _Unh…"_

On the table, the body rocked a little, back and forth with the curvature of the armor.

Zachary held his breath.

" _Wh…what…?"_

And then, in a flash of movement that was so _sharp_ it was inhuman, the corpse of Samantha Hawkins sat upright upon the table, electric blue eyes filled with panic and fear and staring directly into Zachary's own.

" _I…I'm...what's happened to me…?!"_

Zachary screamed.

* * *

 **Yep. I'm finally back in the update cycle!**

 **Do be sure to leave a review!**

 **\- Severina**


	27. Chapter 27

**Chapter 27: Unwilling**

 _What am I –_

 _How can this – ?!_

 _It CAN'T be!_

Hands shaking, Samantha weakly groped the space around her, little bits of wood splintering off underneath her fingernails, her breath quickening as her eyes darted here and there, here and there, finally coming to rest upon Zachary's face.

" _You…"_

Her hands curled into fists, and her body tensed _visibly,_ and the witchdoctor could _feel_ her eyes on him, burning with rage.

Zachary was in awe.

"It…it _worked..._ I can't believe it…!"

"What did you _DO TO ME?!"_

Her voice loud and terrified and infuriated, Samantha ran her hands over her body, surprised that she was here, breathing and moving and _alive._

"No…NO…! YOU BROUGHT ME BACK!"

Launching herself off of the table with a push of her powerful legs, Samantha dove at Zachary, who just barely managed to dodge to the side, causing her to crash into one of the various shelves on the wall, little glass vials and beakers falling and smashing on the ground beside her as Zachary pressed himself against the door, frantically feeling for the handle behind him.

 _Oh God, oh, I didn't mean for - !_

But the words were stuck, lodged in his throat – he hadn't wished to cause her misery!

" _WHY?!"_ Samantha shrieked, yanking the entire _table_ that her body had been laying on just minutes ago, _"HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO ME?!"_

With a feral screech, she lifted the table over her head by one of the legs and drove it furiously into the ground, forcing Zachary to crouch down to protect himself from the blizzard of splinters that was produced as his table was _demolished._

"Sam…Sa-Samantha, wait, _please-!"_

" _YOU BASTARD!"_

Zachary ducked, wind whistling past his ear as her fist swung just _inches_ away from his face, and suddenly the witchdoctor found that his knees were not _quite_ as steady anymore, that he was more terrified now in his own cabin, face-to-face with one of his own than he was when he had seen the three hundred clockwork soldiers in the plundered tunnels charging directly at him.

Finally grasping the doorknob, Zachary twisted it and wrenched it open just enough to allow him to slip out, slamming it shut _just_ in time. He locked the door with the key that he had in his pocket – although if Samantha was truly as strong as he had heard, that wooden door would likely only be a temporary barrier.

Not letting a second go to waste, Zachary pivoted on his heel as fast as he could and sprinted down the treacherously narrow hallway, arms flailing in an almost comical manner. Behind him, he could hear the dissonant _crash_ of the door to his cabin being kicked off of its hinges and, just like the table, reduced to splinters.

His heart was in his throat.

She was _angry_ , and had every right to be – how could he have been so stupid, so _blind?!_

Who would want to come _back_ to a life that had already been ended once – and in such a heartbreaking manner?

However, any apologies that he may have _wished_ to utter remained solely within his mind as Samantha herself came barreling out of the cabin, splinters sticking out of her hair and the fabric of her thin shirt before she caught sight of him and ran directly at him, like a raging bull.

" _HELP! SOMEONE SEND HELP, NOW!"_

As he ran towards the staircase leading to the deck, Zachary pounded his fists on the doors of the other cabins, trying to alert some of the crew and praying that they would hear him, because if she caught him while she was like _this –_

 _That's the end of it._

Luckily, with the combination of Zachary's screaming and the colossal ruckus that Samantha was making in the process of pursuing the witchdoctor, the attention of the nearby engineers had very quickly been snatched, and doors were pushed open, all of them curious as to _what, exactly, is all of this commotion?_

" _Someone hold her down!"_ Zachary yelled, scrambling up the staircase to the deck. Samantha was hot on his heels, her high-pitched screeches wrought with anger, anger and grief.

" _I DIDN'T WANT THIS! I DIDN'T WANT THIS!"_

"Please, I didn't – "

" _PUT ME BACK!"_

Her fist slammed into Zachary's gut and he went flying backwards, his shoulder blades connecting painfully with the deck and his vision blurring.

 _I'm a dead man._

Out of the corner of his now-sideways vision, he could see her approaching, tears in her eyes and every limb trembling, disgusted with herself, with the fact that she was alive again in a life that she didn't deserve, that she was too _good_ for, now that it was irreversibly stained with betrayal.

Her fists were stained with blood – her own blood, probably, from where the splinters from the door and table, where the glass shards from the shattered beakers had torn up her knuckles as she destroyed them.

" _You don't know…you don't KNOW what it was LIKE!"_

She was standing next to him, and he could see her raise her foot in the air, tears staining her freckled face, the wine-colored scar so _obviously_ visible on the burned-bald side of her head –

Before five engineers burst out from below decks, diving at her and tackling her to the ground, wrestling her away from Zachary as he coughed weakly, having been spared the fate of being crushed underneath her foot but still weak and winded from the horrifically strong punch that she had given him just _seconds_ ago.

" _Hold her down – "_

" _LET ME GO!"_

" _Marcus, get her leg!"_

" _LET ME GO! I DON'T WANT THIS! I DON'T WANT THIS!"_

The sorrow could still be heard in her voice, the piercing grief – and of course, each and _every_ member of the crew would realize this – but as of now, their primary concern was to keep her from crushing the skulls of anyone she saw.

The five men that had quite literally saved Zachary's _life_ then proceeded to hold her down with their own combined body weight –

Which was something that did _indeed_ shock the witchdoctor.

This woman had pulled in entire ships at the age of ten – surely _five_ ordinary men would not be able to match that. He was partially correct, of course, in that it would not have been even _close_ to an even match, but she did not get up regardless.

She had _given_ up.

As her screaming slowly quieted and as her struggling ceased, Zachary could hear her voice, muffled by the wooden boards of the deck, muttering, crying, pleading, praying – and now, he could also hear the voices of the men, much more clearly.

"She…she's _alive…_ "

"I don't know how, it's got to be impossible!"

Slowly struggling to his feet, Zachary leaned against the railing, taking wheezing gasps as he tried to catch his breath and making a mental note to check for broken ribs later on.

In the meantime, however, this was _far_ more important.

* * *

 _CRASH!_

"What was _that?!"_ Benjamin jumped to his feet, looking around in alarm, "Clearly nothing in here, I suppose. Poke your head out the door, take a look, would you?"

Andrew turned around and started towards the door, opening it the _tiniest_ bit before putting his face up against the frame. Benjamin brought a hand to his forehead and rubbed his temples, resisting the urge to sigh in exhaustion.

Retrieving Jewel's corpse was not something that he would easily forget, right along with the hidden, menacing message that her spilled innards contained.

 _It could be you._

 _It could be you_ who turns against your crew, or perhaps _it could be you_ who is turned _upon._

" _Good Lord!"_

Pale with fright, Andrew whirled around, slamming the door behind him.

"What, what _is_ it?!" Benjamin nearly snapped, barely restraining himself from (unintentionally) lashing out at his own cousin.

" _Samantha's_ outside. _On the deck."_

"What in the bloody - ?! I thought Zachary… _kept_ her down below, someone must have moved her! How could they be so – "

"No, Ben, she's _alive."_

And he did not have to say any more.

Nudging Andrew aside, Benjamin all but _ran_ out of the cabin and out onto the deck, only to see that his cousin had been _entirely_ correct. Held down by a group of what was now almost the _entirety_ of the ship's crew was Samantha Hawkins, alive and kicking – and shouting and punching and thrashing as well.

"Zachary, what the - ?! How…?!"

"I don't know how it _happened,_ Andrew – and I swear she was calmer before, but then all of them came out and…and she got freaked out again, but I don't think she can throw _all_ of them off this time."

Andrew blinked quickly in bewilderment.

How could Zachary act so _casual_ about resurrecting a _corpse?!_

Or at least Andrew _assumed_ it was him – who else could it be? The rest of the crew was – or rather, _had_ been preoccupied with refining their own designs for weapons and explosives and other such things, as to ensure that they did not remain defenseless, having used all of their stock during the attack on the tunnels.

Next to him, Benjamin stood dumbstruck, feet rooted in place, his mouth opening and closing but unable to _speak,_ only regaining his tongue again several minutes later.

"That's enough – that's _enough,_ get _off_ of her!" The authoritative, powerful tone slipped back into his voice, and quickly, the engineers complied, releasing their hold on and stepping away from the buccaneer, who remained flat on the deck for several seconds before staggering to her feet and looking Benjamin directly in the eyes.

"Miss Hawkins, I'm… _terribly_ sorry that you had to deal with this."

" _Who are you?"_

Her voice was quiet, her words whispered, but the three of them – Benjamin, Andrew, and Zachary – could all feel the _severity_ that lurked deep within.

"My name is Benjamin Spinnaker. I…I knew – "

" _You knew what?"_

 _I knew Sydney._

"Nothing. It's nothing, I apologize. Please, follow us – we'll explain everything."

Samantha eyed him warily. She suspected _something,_ it was evident – but she followed them back into Benjamin's cabin nevertheless, having to turn sideways to pass through the narrow door, her shoulders impossibly broad.

Zachary pitied any man foolish enough to challenge her to a fight – no matter of _what_ nature – the dull ache in his abdomen still persistent. It would bruise _badly,_ at the very least.

"Tell me where I am – and – and how I got here…I didn't – "

"You're on board the _Knave's Voyage,_ Samantha – and we know…we know what _happened_ to you."

"What…what _happened?"_ She seemed puzzled at first, but when the _realization_ hit –

" _Oh…"_

Tears began to form in her eyes, her tense posture suddenly dropping as she shook slightly.

" _I didn't want to come back."_

"Samantha…Samantha, you're _safe_ here, Sydney…Sydney's _dead,"_ Andrew said, hoping that the news would calm her, knowing that her murderer would no longer come for her – but it had the _opposite_ effect of what was intended.

"She… _dead?!_ Oh God, oh…I failed her, _I failed her, this is all MY FAULT!"_

The tears started now, and she slid down against the wall, hugging her knees and sobbing hysterically, none of the others even attempting to reach out to her. It would be useless, they knew.

So they let her mourn.

She stayed like this for several moments, crying, rocking back and forth – she had lost everything – her closest friends were dead, one of them ripped apart, the other driven into insanity. They couldn't blame her in any way, even if they tried.

Eventually, she lifted her head up, still sniffling and shaking, but significantly _less_ angry than before.

Instead, she was just scared – scared like a child left in the dark.

"And…you…?"

She turned her head towards Zachary, the question so blatantly _obvious_ in her reddened, tearstained eyes as he stammered, struggling to respond coherently without agitating her more.

"I-I…I mean, we…yes. We found you outside of the pyramid and carried you back. I…I brought you back, although…I didn't really know that I _could,_ not until now…"

"You brought her _back?!"_ Andrew exclaimed, trying his hardest to keep quiet, but it was difficult to contain the _shock_ in his voice – he had made the automatic assumption that it had been Zachary, yes, but hearing the confirmation from his own mouth was something different altogether.

Samantha stood, no longer angry, no longer a deadly, raging bull who saw nothing but scarlet and sought nothing but vengeance, meeting Zachary's golden eyes with her own.

"I felt you touch my hand. I couldn't see…I…I suppose I never really _existed…_ but it was like I just…went to sleep, and you shook me awake."

 _This is what death feels like._

Zachary may have been too astounded to realize this, but Andrew certainly was _not._ Trying not to interrupt the first peaceful conversation between the two, he proceeded to stalk across the back of the cabin, his pace frantic –

 _Unbelievable –_

 _She KNOWS it!_

There had been witchdoctors, remarkably _powerful_ witchdoctors who had visited the spirit world as an observer – but she had _resided_ within it, she had left her life and _returned_ to it!

"But I didn't want to come back," She said again, still ever as stubborn – and who could blame her, Zachary silently acknowledged. "Why… _why_ did you bring me…?"

"Because...because we…"

He didn't have an answer – at least, not a _good_ one.

"So…so I could suffer as I did when I was alive…?"

Her tone was hurt, her heart was broken – and this was the last thing that they wanted, not when they were so _close_ to getting to the bottom of this.

Zachary looked into Benjamin's eyes, and read his thoughts – he was not telepathic by any means, but what the guild leader was silently _screaming_ at him was so obvious.

 _Don't you dare let this one slip –_

 _The strongwoman of Skull Island-!_

 _What an advantage we would have, over the clockworks stationed there now – if she agrees to fight alongside us!_

Truly, weaponizing her was the last thing that Zachary wanted to do, it went against every principle he had ever founded himself upon – but then again, did he have a _choice?_ What if she was to sink herself, using her _own_ methods, into the abyss of death again, what if she became dormant, unresponsive, a breathing-but-not-living shell? He couldn't let _that_ happen, either.

 _Tell her something, Zachary, something, anything!_

"So we can fix this. So we can…we can fix… _all_ of this."

Samantha frowned, obviously skeptical.

"Fix this…? How can you _possibly_ fix this?!"

Zachary swallowed nervously.

"I…I have Jewel. We're going to…to _bring_ her, just like we did with you. You'll be with her again, and…"

 _And?!_

"And we're going to fix Sydney, too."

* * *

 **I hope you enjoyed, and do be sure to leave a review!**

 **\- Severina**


	28. Chapter 28

**Chapter 28: Boxed In**

Standing behind her large desk, Prima hurriedly rifled through the record-book that was opened before her, one hand planted squarely on the desk as she loomed over it.

 _Underhill. Sydney Underhill._

She had gathered and scanned as many record-books as she could find within the enormous manor, but so far there was no data on the privateer in question – only a list of information about her ship and the date she had acquired it, which was years ago.

Something, _anything –_

Anything to give her _some_ sort of idea as to _what_ was currently transpiring.

" _Supreme Commander!"_

There was a pounding on her door, and without even a second's worth of hesitation, it was practically kicked open, an entire patrol ship's worth of troops bursting in. Prima's head snapped up.

"What is the meaning of this?"

"Apologies, Commander – the _Grand Fife_ has been sighted."

 _The Grand Fife?!_

Tossing the book aside almost haphazardly, Prima rounded on the soldier that had spoken, coming so close that their faces were only inches away.

" _Did you see her?"_

"Affirmative – Underhill was sighted, Commander."

Prima stepped away, her massive high collar shifting slightly as her posture relaxed. Her intensity did not, however – she remained ever as intent as before.

"Report."

And the marine, the one who had spoken first, did just so with a level of ease that would have been alarming for any other creature than a clockwork.

"Our ship was keeping watch upon the _Leviathan,_ another patrol ship in the outer ring, Commander – the _Grand Fife_ came into view, and the scout on position alerted all on board."

"And the _Leviathan_ – did it engage?"

"Not exactly, Commander – the _Grand Fife_ engaged _it,_ and boarded within seconds."

Within seconds – such seemed almost improbable. Armada ships, as Prima would know, were the most heavily armed – surely an old wooden galleon would have had a more _difficult_ time. But it did not seem so – not this time, and it did not make any _sense._

"And the soldiers, were they successful in combat?"

"Negative."

" _What?!"_ Prima snapped, the word as harsh as a cobra's strike. It was impossible – it was in their _programming_ for clockworks to defend themselves, to take any measures necessary to prevent their frames, vital information from falling into the hands of the enemy! "Were they overcome by the crew of the _Fife?"_

"Negative."

"Then – "

"Supreme Commander, the _Fife_ did not have a crew. Its Captain emerged and destroyed the crew of the _Leviathan._ "

"And she was _alone?"_

"Affirmative, Commander. The crew fired upon her, and neither their shots nor their halberds slowed her."

So they _did_ fight, Prima concluded – but their attacks had not had any effect on Sydney Underhill, not in the slightest. It made no sense, _no sense,_ no sense at all – how could it _be,_ for a human to be immune to weapons of gunpowder and fire and steel?

"Was she at least _wounded?"_

Perhaps if it had been the adrenaline that had kept her running, that had forced her to ignore the pain – such was probable, for a _madwoman –_

"Negative, Commander."

 _She was not._

And it was only then that Prima realized something was _deeply_ wrong.

"We've got to pull all patrol ships out of the skies."

"Commander, are you – "

" _We must! Or she will DESTROY US ALL!"_ Her voice rising to a loud, belting yell, Prima began to stalk about the office, her pace quick and hurried. It couldn't be, this couldn't happen,she could not let her soldiers be demolished, she could not let her invasion, her takeover be for nothing!

"Commander," one of the dragoon guards that had been positioned outside the doorway stepped into the doorway, "There is a ship approaching the island. It is coming alarmingly close to shore."

Prima froze.

"Describe it, soldier."

"It is black, Commander, bearing a crossed hatchet and sword upon its sails."

For several seconds, the silence seemed almost deafening, with their Supreme Commander rooted in place, the quiet click-click-click of gears turning just barely audible.

Then Prima ran.

She did not give any warnings or notifications whatsoever – she simply bolted, a flurry of black-gold fabric as she dashed down the stairs of the manor and across the court, past the ever-growing, festering pile of corpses as her troops pursued her with a great readying of weapons and multiple shouts of _Commander, you are endangering yourself!_

Of course, she paid them no heed.

Instead, she only quickened her pace, finally slowing once she reached the beach, the wind catching in her coat, her hair, whistling all around her as the massive black ship, the _Grand Fife,_ drifted past, no more than fifty feet away from the shore.

" _Commander!"_ The troops had finally caught up – but they too fell silent upon the sight of the great looming ship, the deafening sound combination of creaking boards and howling wind drowning out everything else.

In one sharp movement, the musketeers of the group surrounded Prima entirely, guns cocked and pointed at the ship, slender fingers poised on polished, narrow triggers, preparing to fire –

" _No!_ Lower your weapons!"

They obeyed, although there was no doubt that they were _questioning_ the logical reasoning behind this decision.

"Don't fire upon it – you said yourself that you had seen its Captain destroy an entire crew – we are within range of its cannons!"

She was entirely correct – the _Fife's_ enormous, rusted canons were practically just above their heads, and they remained silent, not daring to threaten the thin veil of stealth that they had still somehow kept.

Then again, Sydney Underhill was only one woman, and the ship she sailed was almost absurdly large – there was a chance that she had simply not seen them yet, that she was elsewhere on the _Fife._

The ship was dangerously close now, and Prima could swear that she could see the individual barnacles clinging to the hull – a part of her was tempted to call back her order, to have them fire upon the ship, to retrieve the heavy artillery before it sailed away and blast it to smithereens. But she did none of that – instead, she continued to hold still, as if just _waiting_ for something to happen.

Perhaps this was the "sixth sense" that humans seemed to mention occasionally in their literature.

Faintly, the sound of a door swinging open could be heard, followed by slow, uneven footsteps across the deck until a shape came into view at the railing, the fog clearing a little and allowing them to see _exactly_ what had just acknowledged their presence.

Grey eyes, black hair, thin frame – Sydney Underhill clasped the railing at the dock as she stared down at the squadron of clockworks currently surrounding their Commander, not displaying any other reaction.

Behind her, Prima could make out the shapes of several prone humans – corpses, most likely, judging from the dried blood that coated the sides of the ship from where it had dripped and spilled and _poured_ over. The same blood stained Underhill's hands, brown and crusted, and in some areas, deep and _fresh._

That explained the ruby color of her lips, oh yes, which had no particular outline because the remnantsof her last _meal,_ Prima now realized, were still quite evident.

Remaining completely unmoving, Prima tensed, expecting Sydney to _do_ something, to attack – but she did not know what to expect, not with this, not with the _circumstances_ being as they were, with thirty dead clockworks on the deck of her ship and blood still staining her nails and hands and throat and lips and chin.

Her grey eyes unblinking, Sydney licked her lips, her tongue pointed and oddly long, almost serpentine.

Slowly, she looked from left to right, taking in the sight of the empty beach, of the burnt ruins of the houses behind, and of the squadron of clockworks, the rifles of the musketeers pointed directly at her. Yet, this did not seem to bother her in the slightest – after all, if the report that the Supreme Commander had been given earlier was true, their charges would leave her unaffected anyways.

" _Commodore!"_

Sydney's voice was a hiss, a distorted whisper that seemed to come from everywhere all at once –

" _How nice it is, to see you here…"_

Prima's hand flew to the ceremonial sword sheathed at her hip, but she did not give the order to fire – not yet. From the deck of her ship, Sydney smiled widely at her, bloodstained lips parting to reveal reddened teeth, her eyes wide and sunken and unfocused as if she was trying to see everything all at once as her enormous ship continued to slowly drift by at a slow dirge.

And then, directly in the presence of the Supreme Commander, the skin around her mouth split, and her jaw stretched downwards and open to an _impossible_ degree, her teeth sharpening to points and multiplying in rows as she screeched _deafeningly,_ the whites of her eyes fading to black as her hands morphed into ghastly, claw-like appendages which dug into and splintered the wood of the railing she was clinging to.

" _Fire!"_

But even with ten charges slamming directly into her head and chest, Sydney Underhill only stumbled back – she was not harmed in the slightest, with every distorted, demented feature of her mutilated form still intact.

And then, as quickly as she had become this _demonic_ creature, she transformed right back again, now a shaken, stumbling grey-eyed woman, a madwoman, lost in the depths of her own mind. She staggered back into her cabin, her knees threatening to give out from underneath her with each step she took, leaving Prima powerless to do anything other than to stare numbly as the _Grand Fife_ slowly drifted away.

She left a heavy silence behind her – something that carried more weight, more dread than silence should.

"Soldier, I repeat my orders. Withdraw all patrol ships from the skyway."

"At once, Commander."

There was no hesitation this time.

* * *

The great wooden structure of the _Grand Fife_ gave a mighty creak as the powerful gusts of wind steered it away from the edge of the island, almost seeming to act of its own accord. However, to anyone who looked upon the ship from a distance, the Captain was nowhere to be found, and there were no signs of a crew.

The crew had died long ago, Sydney would have screech-laughed, they're gone. They're never coming back. The deck of the ship was occupied instead by dozens of corpses, human corpses, clockwork frames, entire chunks torn out of them whole.

Within the Captain's cabin, Sydney Underhill wept.

"I…I saw her, Caerulus…your Commodore…!"

She was on her knees, as she so often was, the long-deactivated frame of the clockwork Captain draped over her lap as she cupped her hand along his sharp-angled face, fingers shaking and trembling.

"She's taken the island…"

Sydney shifted her weight, the tears dripping down her face mingling with the partially-coagulated blood that coated her mouth and chin as she licked her lips again, both reveling in and disgusted at the taste.

Rather, she was disgusted that she _was_ reveling in the taste –

"Caerulus, what…what have I become…?"

 _I don't know, Commander,_ she wished he would say, she _knew_ he would have said if he hadn't let himself bleed out, choosing to terminate himself rather than serve an _imperfect_ leader.

"Why did they chain me to my biggest failure?"

 _Because you deserved it, Commander._

 _Because you weren't strong enough, Commander._

"Will I see him again?"

Her fingers slipped into the pocket of her tattered black coat – a shame, she had not even been imprisoned with her uniform – and traced along the edges of the small box, the wood soaked through and through with blood, as was the rest of her.

The eyes, the beautiful blue eyes that once waited in here were with her only success, her only victory and triumph – Quintus, whose fate she desperately wished she knew.

"It would be worth it all…this…this would be worth it, Caerulus, if I just..if I just _knew_ he was safe!"

 _Why, Commander?_

Of course, clockworks just didn't _understand_ why she had no sense of self-preservation, why she would give up her blood and flesh and bone for a soldier, a follower, a servant, a sheep.

Because he is perfect and I am not, she said, but it was too painful to say out loud and so the words stayed in her head instead. Because he is worthy of it and a thousand times more than I am.

When Sydney had taken up that scalpel and dug it into the flesh of her own hideous face, she had not expected to close her eyes forever, and then open them again on the ship full of failure that she had purposefully abandoned.

" _I wanted to be perfect."_

She had fallen with that mask still clutched in her hand, so close, so close, never quite there.

 _But Commander, that is something you can never be._

The _Grand Fife_ swayed as the pull of the windlane drew her in, the wind whistling across the deck. Sydney Underhill clutched Caerulus' frame to her cold, bloodless chest and sobbed.

* * *

 **I hope you enjoyed, and please do leave a review - I'd love to know what you think!**

 **\- Severina**


	29. Chapter 29

**Chapter 29: An Illusion of Victory**

Ever since the day that corpses had swarmed and attacked the crew of the _Sapfir,_ Decimus had not dared to come out from below decks. It was understandable, of course, although many members of the crew resented him greatly for it. How was it justifiable that _they_ would be the ones to assemble _his_ design up on deck when he would not even come up himself?

In addition, the fact that the design for the turbine-sail was drawn up by Decimus himself had at first posed somewhat of a problem. The different stages of construction had previously been dictated and overseen by Decimus, for he would know what was correct and what was not, having served on ships bearing these sorts of sails for his entire period of function.

Luckily, Aleks, who had been one of the few to show something _other_ than hostility to the clockwork marksman, had been able to convey Decimus' instructions to the crew – something that was received much better since it came from the mouth of their Captain.

Meanwhile, Decimus had hidden himself below.

It had taken days for Vladimir to convince him that the ship was safe enough for him to emerge from the cabin alone – although he would still twitch at the slightest noise or disturbance, although he would turn corners with hesitation, as if _she_ was around every corner, just waiting –

 _There you are!_

Clockworks did not perceive fear, but this was perhaps the closest it would come.

As of now, he, along with Vladimir, were in the ship's hold amongst numerous barrels of gunpowder and stacks of weapons, sorted by world of origin and type. Decimus had replaced his torn and bloodstained uniform coat with a fur-lined jacket that he had found in one of the many storage areas. It was obviously made to hold in heat, much like his Polarian patrol uniform had before it had been destroyed.

"And your own Commander would not believe you?"

Vladimir was not demanding when he asked – he was anything but. Rather, he was _inquiring,_ out of a desire to understand, to learn more.

 _How logical._

How oddly logical, for a human.

"Negative – it is not that he did not believe me."

His speech came easier now, he noticed – there were less halts, and often times none. He could not remember the last time that this had occurred.

"Rather, he did not see my function as… _worth the effort_ again."

Vladimir's brow creased.

"Worth _what_ effort?"

And Decimus did not quite know how to proceed.

Worth the effort of helping me. Fixing me. Saving me. The Commodore had stood in for me the last time. The Commodore had taken control. She erased my memories of that woman, she let me function normally again. She thought that Dangler had cast the last of her spells. She was wrong and now the Commodore is _dead_ and cannot –

"Worth the effort of trying to pursue and eliminate her."

"Even though she was a threat?"

"A threat that the Supreme Commander had limited knowledge upon. It would be illogical to pursue her if there was not a full understanding of her abilities."

That in itself sounded much more sensible than the full story of what had actually occurred, and for the sake of convenience, Decimus let it remain. Vladimir was not pushing the matter further, which was good – he was not quite prepared to react, had the Polarian continued.

"So he would rather have – "

"He imprisoned me. Alone. As a test subject for further analysis."

 _A test subject._

Clockworks could not truly be _cruel,_ they had no ulterior motives other than to gain knowledge, power, and control – but in a way, that would only make it _worse._

He imagined Decimus restrained to a wall by chains that would be unacceptably restricting when used on a human but this was not a human and therefore no regard was given, he imagined other clockwork officers interrogating him, asking him questions faster than he could answer them.

Vladimir decided not to press _this_ farther either, and he let it lie.

"And they placed you in a Polarian patrol squadron?"

"Negative. I escaped."

I took the uniform, I marched along with them all while knowing that the conditions of Polaris would eventually terminate me, yes, but that would be better, that would be far better.

And he had been so _close._

"The one you mentioned, the Commodore…she can't help you anymore…?"

"She was terminated. My patrol found her frame. We were returning her to the ship when the warriors attacked."

Strangely enough, Vladimir found himself reacting, almost as if he was trying to make up for what any _human being_ would have done if they were in Decimus' situation. He had lost an ally, a protector, perhaps the only being who had been willing to truly help him. Perhaps Decimus himself perceived it the same way, perhaps he had registered the loss but was not quite capable of reacting to it externally.

Perhaps they were not so different after all.

The sound of footsteps descending above them announced the Captain's arrival, his forehead soaked with sweat – obviously, he had joined the crew in assembling and installing the enormous turbine-sail, trying to lift some of the burden that had been placed squarely upon all of their shoulders.

"It has been done."

"The sails?" Decimus stood, bracing himself on the wall behind him – the enormous wound upon his torso was still closing up, after he had ripped it open again during that nightmarish _frenzy._

"Indeed – perhaps you should certify that it has been done… _correctly._ "

Decimus did not reply.

They wanted him to come up on deck, and although it did seem like such a _simple_ request given that the crew had been up there for days, working tirelessly while Decimus hid below, there was still the lurking danger.

She's here. She's everywhere, waiting, just _waiting_ for him.

"It's a good idea," Vladimir said, standing up behind Decimus, the persuasive and insistent nudge in his voice just barely present, "But once we determine that it functions, we should come down as soon as possible."

"And why is that?"

Because she is here, Decimus wanted to say, to _scream,_ if he was capable of it, but Vladimir spoke for him instead, providing his Captain with the excuse that there were unknown dangers in these parts of the spiral, and that safety and survival was key as of now.

Aleks bought it – he had no reason not to, it was perfectly logical.

"I will check the sails."

Decimus' voice was quieter, but still steady, and automatically, he matched the Captain's footsteps as he led the both of them up, out of the hold, and onto the deck, where the crew stood waiting.

Every single one of them was out of breath and more or less drenched in their own sweat, some of them looking exhausted, others furious – especially at the sight of Decimus himself. However, they did not _voice_ their displeasure, not in their Captain's presence.

Stepping further out onto the deck, Decimus looked up at the sail, now roped to the mast – the wooden frames were solid and symmetrical, yes, and although the sails were made from patched fabric, it still held quite well.

Everything seemed to be in working order.

Looking over the rope, Decimus traced it across the frame of the sails, down the mast, and finally to the lever that had been anchored into the boards of the deck that would control the pitch of the ship, allowing them to quite literally sail _up_ and, hypothetically, allow them to escape from this infernal abyss.

Climbing up beside the mast, Decimus tapped a hand over the pitch lever first, to ensure its stability, and then gripped it tightly, planting his feet into a more stable stance and pushing it ever so slightly to the right.

And then, without much delay at all, the sails matched the angle, and the ship did the same. Decimus released the lever and turned to the crew, all of them silent in anticipation.

"Well? Does it work properly?"

"Affirmative."

The crew and Captain of the _Sapfir_ erupted into cheers, congratulating each other in Polarian and clapping each other on the back – this was not hopeless after all, there _was_ a way out! In the midst of this, Aleks approached Decimus, speaking just loudly enough that he could be heard over the noise –

"Is it ready for testing?"

"It is, Captain," Decimus confirmed, using his title out of the protocol – he was not an officer of Valencia, but he commanded this ship nevertheless, "And it would be wise to do so as soon as possible."

Turning to his crew, Aleks bellowed several orders in Polarian, to which they quickly complied. Immediately, Vladimir jumped up and took the wheel, holding it stable while the others rushed to the ropes, to their corresponding positions.

"Ten degrees up," Decimus said, and pulled the lever back. Just as before, the sails followed – except they tilted _up_ this time, and soon, all aboard the _Sapfir_ could feel the ship pulling up, lifting up beneath them."

So far, so good – nothing had gone wrong. Decimus eased the lever back a little farther.

"Fifteen degrees." The ship tilted ever so slightly upwards and continued its ascent.

"So…it works?" Aleks asked, trying to contain his own anticipation but just barely succeeding – the little spark of hope was too great here.

"Affirmative, Captain."

" _We've done it!"_

And now, joy _truly_ took over each and every one of them – the men jumped down from the masts, embracing each other, some of them praying to whatever God they worshiped in their country – _finally._

They had evaded death and doom itself.

But then –

" _Land it!"_ Decimus said, the traces of what almost seemed to be _panic_ laced in with his words, _"Land it, quickly!"_

"You're insane – we just got it working!"

"The mast will _snap_ if we don't!"

And indeed, Decimus spoke the truth – when the men on board looked up, they found that, sure enough, the mast was strained and _bending_ dangerously.

" _Shit!_ Back to your stations, _now!"_

There was a great rush, almost _chaotic_ in nature as Decimus slowly eased the angle off, the gravity of the abyss pulling them slowly back down to the vertical height that they had started at.

 _Too good to be true._

Still, the mast had been saved – and the sails _worked_ as intended. Reinforcing the mast could be done easily enough, with the shipwrecks that drifted around them every day and any spare materials in the hold. Nevertheless, the atmosphere over the _Sapfir_ was heavy – all of them, the Captain, the crew, the clockwork, had been cheated of their victory this time.

It was demoralizing – but it was not as if this crew, made up of _scavengers,_ were not accustomed to failure. They would simply try again, like the persistent creatures they were, and that worked quite well with Decimus' own logical course of action.

" _You there! Help us!"_

A shout, from a distance – clearly from somewhere else in the abyss – and as if they had been on a hair trigger, the crew rushed to the railings, squinting and scouring the area to try and find the _source_ of this.

" _Help us!"_

"Over there!" One of the crew members cried, flinging an arm out in the indicated direction. The ship continued to drift forwards, and as it did, the outline of a half-destroyed ship slowly came into view – Marleybonian, Decimus concluded, by the shape of it. Several moving figures, although shadowed, could be seen on the deck, some of them rushing about and carrying what was most likely salvaged rations, some of the others waving their arms in the air.

" _We see you!"_ Aleks called back, his voice echoing out into the endless expanse of nothing, "Peter, take the wheel!"

The scavenger that he had addressed – Peter – rushed to comply, taking hold of the wheel and steering the ship carefully in the direction of the wreckage, the others murmuring amongst themselves. Most of them were expressing relief, relief that they were no longer alone, that they were no longer abandoned, that there were others here –

But yet, there was also concern of resources, of not having enough food or water to sustain twice the number of men that the ship was made for, and Decimus could not help but inwardly note that a clockwork crew would not have had to face this challenge.

They ran off of nothing but their orders, their purpose.

The _Sapfir_ pulled up alongside the wreckage, and gangplanks were placed between the two ships as the Captain and what remained of the crew of the Marleybonian ship crossed over, respectfully greeting Aleks with either a salute or a resemblance of one.

"We owe our lives to you, Captain."

Aleks bowed his head in reply.

"This place is dark and endless – we must unite in order to have any chance of escape. Our resources are limited, but we are able to tend to your wounded while we make the last few repairs to our ship."

" _We must unite indeed."_

Decimus froze – as did the rest of the crew.

The Marleybonian Captain's voice had become distorted, divided and dissonant and grating, and his eyes no longer held any color – rather, they were white, all white, _pure_ white.

" _We must unite together…"_

Now it was the rest of the Marleybonians, speaking together, as one – with that same high pitched, shrill voice, doubled over itself again and again, their eyes white, blank, empty –

" _Together…forever!"_

And before their eyes, the Captain and crew of the destroyed ship dissolved into clouds of smoke, only for _each_ of them to reform into the same identical figure, with white, empty eyes and thick, curled, dark hair, with a full-lipped smile and broken nails.

The color drained from Vladimir's face.

 _This is the one he speaks of –_

 _This is Dangler._

As if she was blind, Dangler – all thirteen of her ghostly replicas – stretched out her arms, walking about slowly, their hands feeling the air in front of them, grabbing for something, _anything –_

But Decimus knew that she was looking for one thing in _particular –_

Him.

" _Where are you,"_ The Danglers rasped, the temperature suddenly seeming to drop dramatically, " _Why are you hiding from me…?"_

As her and all of her replicas stumbled about the deck, their smoky forms leaving equally smoky trails behind them, Decimus realized that they could not see him, they were walking without knowing what was in front of them, like blind women. The crewmembers quickly and quietly moved out of their paths, too terrified to the core to do anything else other than to stand still, to stand still and pray that it would be nothing more than this.

Then –

" _Ah - ! I feel you – here!"_

Slowly, as if to purposefully amplify the dread that had silently and completely consumed the entirety of the _Sapfir_ and her occupants, all thirteen ghostly Danglers turned towards Decimus, pointing a single bony finger in his direction as they drew nearer to him, closing in –

" _Oh, my dear Decimus…you can't run forever!"_ And all at once, they rushed at him.

Decimus had brought his arms up before his face, as if this would somehow ward off thirteen iterations of his sole tormentor, but as soon as they reached him, there was an enormous blast of smoke and she was no longer there, having vanished back into the void that she had come from.

* * *

 **I hope you enjoyed, and do be sure to leave a review!**

 **\- Severina**


	30. Chapter 30

**Chapter 30: The Next Step**

Over the next few weeks, Zachary had spent a majority of the time confined to the small bed within his own cabin, as per Benjamin's orders. Reviving a _person_ from the dead was taxing, no doubt, and although he had been much too occupied with running away from a raging strongwoman at the time of Samantha's revival, he had been weakened significantly.

He estimated that he had lost twenty, maybe twenty-five pounds. After Samantha had left their cabin, after they had almost _foolishly_ promised to "fix Sydney" – how the hell were they supposed to do that, he angrily thought – his wrist bones had nearly protruded from his flesh, his clothing hung slack off of his frame.

There was also the matter of Jewel, whose body lay in the room just next to his own.

He was not allowed to leave his own quarters until he had gained back the weight that he had lost – but Benjamin had not gone as far as to instill a watch outside in the hallway, choosing to trust Zachary instead. It was not as if Zachary would disobey common sense – up until now, he had indeed been at a very low weight, dangerous enough to risk serious injury. If he had tried to reconstruct Jewel to even the slightest extent, there was no telling what permanent damage he would do.

But now, he was strong again.

With the help of a chemically enhanced supplement that he had engineered himself (some of the vials that he had kept within his cabin had survived Samantha's fury), his twenty-five pounds were easily regained, and perhaps some more to add onto it. His shirts fit just a little more tightly, but not enough to be uncomfortable – and he had been lanky enough to begin with.

 _About time,_ Zachary thought – he had had difficulty sleeping at night, getting himself to calm down with the knowledge that Jewel was still subject to the process of decay.

Samantha, at least, had not been torn apart when she was first found – and Jewel had been dead longer than Samantha had, judging by the sparse information that the buccaneer had given them so far. There was no time to waste, not for her – the longer he waited, the more work he would have to do, the more energy it would drain from him.

And then there was no telling _if_ he would ever be capable of resurrecting Sydney, assuming that they were lucky and fortunate enough to have found and retrieved her corpse, which would likely be, given what she had _done to herself,_ in _much_ worse condition, especially given that there would be such an enormous time gap between her death and her reconstruction as compared to her shipmates.

The next room, Jewel's room, was only a few feet away, and Zachary lingered at the threshold, hesitant and doubtful.

Did he truly _want_ to see what was inside?

Even from where he was, with the nonexistent lighting save for the dim lamp on the wall, he could see the uneven lump of twisted jackets that had been wrapped around the corpse, the fabric soaked through and through with the fluids and stench of rot.

No, no he didn't. But he had to.

Andrew had taken the time to move most of his equipment to the new room, knowing full well that he would be getting back to work as soon as he was able. Zachary picked up a pair of scissors from the nearby side table and approached the corpse hesitantly, as if afraid that she would unexpectedly rise up without prompting and leap upon him.

 _Stupid._

 _It's just a body._

He hadn't been scared when he was reconstructing Samantha, he remembered –

 _Then why am I scared now?_

The tip of the scissors grazed the fabric of the jackets, and his hand froze, as if encased in ice. Zachary wondered if this was truly impossible –

Even for him.

It couldn't be – he had promised Samantha, he had _promised_ her, and now it seemed a little more bearable, lifting the edge of the fabric and turning his face away as he peeled the jackets away from what remained of Sydney's most unfortunate victim, holding his breath so he didn't gag.

He could _feel_ it, the wet, foam-like, liquid texture of the mush that remained of her internal organs, he could feel it seeping through his fingers and over his wrist, he could _hear_ it as it did so.

With a single stifled scream, Zachary ripped the rest of the jackets open, stumbling back and frantically shaking off his hands as he did so, scraping the backs of his fingers against the walls, slapping them against his thighs – this was _horrific,_ grasping parts of what once used to be a smiling, speaking, feeling human being.

Suddenly, reconstructing Samantha, spending hours and days alongside her corpse – it did not seem so bad, in retrospect to this.

He still hadn't quite managed to look at his new project.

His heart thudding in his chest, Zachary gulped, suddenly having regretted closing the door and cutting off the flow of fresh air, but if _he_ was shaken so badly by _this,_ the reactions of any others would, without a doubt, be much worse.

"G-God…help me…"

Holding his breath, Zachary slowly forced himself to turn his head front, eyes open as he looked over what he would be starting with.

Jewel was unrecognizable.

Any remains of her deep purple silk coat were gone, as were her shoes – her flesh was discolored and deteriorated and bloated all at once, her exposed and extracted intestines were reduced to a pile of shapeless mush. Already, he could see the swarm of white maggots writhing, having been exposed from their damp enclosure of rotten flesh and darkness.

Zachary rolled up his sleeves and steeled himself.

It was time to get to work.

* * *

"What is _that?"_ Samantha, who was sitting on her knees on the floor of Andrew's cabin, asked almost delicately, pointing to a small, circular-shaped device that had several layers of springs within it, along with various other objects and components.

"An explosive," Andrew answered, without looking up once. His eyes ached from focusing so hard for so long.

They were all lucky that Samantha had been so easy to take in, after she had calmed down – he had half expected her to attempt to murder him and Zachary and anyone who she was able to lay her hands on, and they had no right to blame her. But she had chosen to take an interest in his projects instead.

"Another one?"

"We have to make a lot of them."

Samantha wanted to ask what for, but she didn't – something that she couldn't quite identify told her that she had better leave it be, and Andrew was thankful for that. He wasn't quite ready to answer _that_ string of questions, mainly because it involved the tunnels and the soldiers of the Captain who betrayed and killed her, even though she still blamed herself for it.

 _I wonder,_ Andrew thought as he adjusted his glasses, guiding the forceps into place _ever_ so carefully, _why they chose me, of all people?_

Even he was aware that he was not the most emotionally adept of people. He was not insensitive, no, most certainly not – but when it came to the emotions of others, Andrew had never been particularly good at handling himself in a _tactful_ manner.

"Did you run out of them before?"

"Yes." Short, clipped replies, because that's the kind of person that he was and the only kind of person that he knew how to be.

"Hmm…" Samantha edged closer, like a curious child, peering intently at the small time bomb that he was assembling and watching his every twitch and movement each of them calculated and precise and intent. She wasn't wearing her armor anymore, or the white shirt that she had been found in – one of the women on board had given her another set of clothes, although it did require some modifications to even have a chance of fitting over Samantha's broad, muscular shoulders.

The light brown leather jacket fit her nicely, Andrew noticed – she truly did look like she had stepped into a new life, with her long, black hair tied loosely away from her freckled face, with the clean clothing and stable, thick-soled brown boots. They had even given her a weapon belt, although she was never much use at wielding a dagger.

And yet, there was still a hint of sadness in her eyes, about her very being – it radiated from her, although it was difficult to detect at first.

Andrew rotated his body around his worktable, trying to find an angle that didn't strain his hand so much, and she followed, blinking quickly, her eyes slightly irritated from the sawdust that was always drifting through the air, regardless of if he was woodworking or not. As she turned her head, the enormous, wine-colored scar on the bald patch of her head came into view, looking somewhat similar to a giant bruise.

She did not notice his stare – at least, she did not comment on it – paying his wandering and almost pitying gaze no more attention than a fly on the wall, still fully absorbed in the process of building and assembling.

It was the passion that lay at the heart of every true engineer. She would, perhaps, become one herself one day, if she ever gained the focus and coordination for it.

"You went into the tunnels."

"Wh- _what?!"_ Andrew cough-spluttered, nearly dropping the foreceps and ripping off several of the wires that he had just spent the last hour connecting.

He had not expected her to bring that up. He was not ready for her to bring that up.

And yet, she had brought it up and he was going to answer her, whether he wanted to or not. Truly, he owed her, they _all_ owed her after what she had been through, in her last life and her next.

"How did you know?"

"You said you brought back Jewel. So you…you had to have gone into the tunnels…right?"

Her voice wasn't as clear now, she wasn't as happy-go-lucky, as content as a curious child just like she had been minutes ago. Andrew silently wished that she would go back to that, but the tears were already in her eyes, even though they were not in her voice just yet.

"Yes. Yes, we did."

He set aside his tools. Although he was not a social person, he did have _some_ knowledge of what was polite and tactful.

"Samantha, can I ask you something?"

She looked up and blinked once, trying to hold the tears back, but not _appearing_ to be emotionally distressed, oddly enough.

"Go ahead."

"What…what happened to Sydney…?"

Her lip trembled and Andrew wished he could have taken his words back. Not because they were cruel or rude or heartless, but because he simply didn't like to see people cry. He didn't know what to do when people cried.

"I…I don't know, exactly…"

"Tell me what you can. You don't have to if you don't want to – "

"No. I think you need to know. You promised me that…that you'd fix her…so I…I f-figured that it'd only be right."

There they were, the tears in her voice, the breaks in the sound. Andrew willed himself not to panic, to remain open and as comforting as he possibly could be. The woman had _quite literally_ died and come back to a life that she never wanted to see again – he owed it to her.

Sitting back in the wooden chair, Andrew waited quietly. He would not prompt her; he would not pressure her – this would be entirely on her own terms.

"I think it was because of Quintus."

"Because of… _Quintus…?"_

"Her Armada musketeer. I don't know how she did it, but she got him to… _obey_ her. He called her "Commander." He followed her around _everywhere._ "

Samantha closed her eyes, taking deep, shuddering breaths, obviously trying to calm herself. Andrew let her, but he was thinking now, he was remembering and making the connection – he remembered the musketeer, the one with the blue eyes. The soldier who had stood in front of Sydney Underhill's corpse and refused to let them pass, who so vehemently insisted that _she needs her rest, she needs her rest, my Commander is exhausted!_

"Quintus…he has blue eyes…?"

Samantha's head shot up.

"He does…how did you know?" She was staring straight into his eyes now, trying to read him, trying to drill through his head – he knew far more than she did, perhaps, he had knowledge of events beyond her first death.

What have you seen, she was asking but not saying.

"I saw him. When we brought Jewel back. He was guarding her – Sydney, I mean."

He wouldn't tell her what happened to Sydney. He wouldn't tell her that her Captain's body was infested with maggots who were making a home inside of her shell, he wouldn't tell her that the rotting flesh of her face lay a few feet away from the rest of her, and he certainly wouldn't tell her about the bloodstained mask clutched between her fingers, held to her chest.

But Andrew remembered the insistence of the clockwork soldier, his certainty that his Commander was _sleeping, she needed her rest,_ and although he would have thought it impossible even a week ago, he found himself feeling pity for Quintus.

"And there was a-another one – an officer…"

Andrew didn't recall any officer.

"He wasn't in the tunnels. She kept him locked in her cabin for months. Jewel and I, we…we had no idea…"

"What happened to him?"

"Right before we…infiltrated Cadiz, she tried to take his loyalty for her own."

Samantha herself seemed bewildered, as if she was merely reading aloud the words of a textbook that she did not quite understand, and Andrew did not understand either. Not in the slightest.

How was it _possible,_ he wondered, to turn the loyalty of an Armada clockwork?

"He died. She didn't succeed. He bled out in her cabin, and I think it was because he wanted to. But she didn't fail with the rest of the clockworks in the tunnels."

The clockworks in the tunnels obeyed her, he remembered, amazed that he had almost forgotten, that's right. They had stormed the central chamber seconds before he and Benjamin and Zachary and the others had escaped through the walls with Jewel's body, ready to defend her, to protect her from all that dared to threaten her _dead, rotting corpse._

"I never knew how she did it," Samantha sighed, turning away and swiping the tears away from her face, "Or _why."_

"But they still obey her…even when she's – "

"If that's what _you've_ seen," Samantha almost spat, reminding Andrew that she had died before Sydney did. He winced. Tact _really_ wasn't his strength. It wasn't that he was insensitive, just –

Words tended not to come easily to him in these sorts of situations.

"Well…they certainly seemed to, I suppose…"

Samantha didn't react – but he hadn't made things any worse, which was what he was concerned about in the first place.

It made no sense, it _didn't_ – how were they so _unaware,_ how could they not know that their own Commander had been dead for weeks, maybe even months? When Kane had been taken down, the position of Supreme Commander had fallen to the next in line, surely they needed a living, functioning Commander themselves to drive their decisions, their actions –

Unless, he realized, all of them had absorbed the mentality of Quintus, the blue-eyed soldier.

* * *

 **I hope you enjoyed, and do be sure to leave a review!**

 **\- Severina**


	31. Chapter 31

**Chapter 31: Remain**

He had rebuilt her from the inside out, starting with her organs first, knowing that his energy was limited and that he had to prioritize. Yet, it was still not easy – Jewel's intestines were in a dismal state, most segments of them being beyond repair.

Finding himself stuck, Zachary had to improvise.

Luckily, he was quick, both on his feet and with his mind, and had detached the unsalvageable segments, connecting the parts that he had fully been able to restore directly to each other. Most humans had seven meters' worth of small intestine, Zachary knew.

She had two and a half, maybe three, if he was generous with his estimations, and her large intestine was almost nonexistent, so much of it had been destroyed beyond even his capabilities of repair.

If she was brought back, he knew, the normal process of digestion would be impossible, with this short a length of intestines – she would die of malnourishment and severe indigestion simultaneously.

 _If_ she was brought back, Zachary internally chided himself, remembering again that she was not yet alive, and that restoring her would be a _much_ more taxing progress than her buccaneer counterpart had been.

And then there was Jewel's reaction to consider.

Zachary could still feel the ache of the impacting blows that Samantha had delivered to his body in her rage – and he most certainly did not blame her, for her fate was one he did not envy. However, Jewel's demise was on an entirely different level.

 _Disemboweled,_ he thought, _and by her own Captain._

He had nothing factual to base his estimations on, but Zachary would have bet a week's worth of plunder that she would be even more hysterical than Samantha, even more difficult to console and convince and reason with. He hated himself for thinking of Jewel in such an analytical manner.

Zachary looked at her form, laid out on the bloodstained table before him.

He had propped her into what was a fairly straight position, so that her limbs were not bent at odd angles and so that her mouth was no longer gaping open. The extensive decay made it impossible to believe that she was _sleeping,_ as Samantha had looked, but she did look more peaceful than before.

Zachary wished for peace. He only ever wished for peace. He didn't _want_ to weaponize them, he didn't _want_ to make them soldiers for the guild –

He just wanted this neverending strife and suffering to end.

Perhaps, he then thought, it would be better if Samantha were there, if she was ever revived – to see a familiar face might reduce the panic of being jerked from one state of living to another. Not to mention that Samantha had been through this, and therefore she would know and _understand_ the fear and panic and sadness and grief and anger that would grip the swashbuckler too fast and all at once when she began to breathe again.

Yes, Zachary decided, it was certainly a good idea – he would have to mention it to Samantha later on.

But for now, he would have to focus on reconstructing the swashbuckler – quite literally from the inside out.

* * *

Back again on his hands and knees in the tiny, cramped inner system of the tunnels, Andrew felt blindly in front of him for his cousin's legs and feet, the lack of light far too severe for him to even have a hope of vision. Benjamin had insisted on not bringing a lantern with them – it would leave them an extra hand to shoot with in case they were discovered.

Andrew prayed to every deity he knew of that it would not come to that, especially now that the clockwork soldiers patrolling the tunnels had _seen_ their faces. Their memories were not fickle like his own – they remembered images to photographic detail.

And therefore they would not hesitate to seize and shoot them both.

 _Remind me why we're doing this again,_ he resisted the urge to say, biting his own lip – after all, it had been their own promise to Samantha – that they would fix Sydney as well.

Not to mention that it had become far more than just a matter of honor after what Samantha had told him in his cabin – what she had told him of _how_ Sydney had been driven to madness.

She had seized control of the clockwork soldiers – perhaps it was a secret that they had a hope of obtaining if they were to recover and restore her body.

There was no telling now, of course, if she would be compliant or not.

 _Of course she won't._

She thought of herself, and the rest of her own species right along with her, as flawed, as imperfect and disgusting – so much so that she had ripped herself apart in order to be rid of something she found _hideous._

Andrew remembered how his stomach had leapt up into his throat when he had seen Sydney's corpse, defaced and rotten and infested, and somehow Samantha's explanation only made it worse.

The scalpel in her right hand had made it evident that her death was brought about by none other than herself –

But had it not been for the information that Samantha had provided to bridge the gaps, Andrew would have assumed that she had merely fallen to madness, that she had killed herself during a short minute in which her actions were out of even her own control. Andrew could comprehend that.

There were stories, cases of insanity flying here and there – it was practically a part of everyday life, hearing about the newest infliction, about the soldier who could not stop hearing the screams of his comrades in his ears when he went to sleep at night or the mother who kept the corpse of her stillborn child in a cradle for months, rocking and clothing and feeding it as if it was alive.

They were unpleasant stories, but it was their nature to escape and spread.

Yet, Sydney's own suicide topped them all – she had _reason_ behind it, reason that was so _clear,_ when spoken aloud, that it was terrifying.

She hated her own face. She cut it off.

She found her visage disgusting. She removed it.

It was just as simple, it seemed, as _I don't like the way I look with long hair, so I'll just trim it a little and – ah, yes, much better!_

And this was terrifying for more than one reason – the first being that no mortal being would ever willingly accept that there was a method behind her madness –

And the other being that it, Andrew realized, could happen to any of them.

What if, he thought, his imagination kicking into overdrive, one day he decided that he didn't like the color of his own eyes? That brown was too dull, that he wanted a pretty light blue, like those eyes that Quintus had?

Then he would hold his lids open as he severed the optical nerves, as he wrenched the slimy orbs from their sockets –

And perhaps without vision now, he would not be able to fix the damage he had done – but a lack of ugliness was better than the presence of it, regardless of the results.

Andrew shivered and forcefully swallowed down the bile that had risen in his throat. He would not be sick all over his cousin's shoes while they crawled through these infernal tunnels.

A few more moments passed and at last, they could see light, as dim as it was – and Benjamin carefully climbed out first, stepping aside to allow Andrew room to extract himself from their claustrophobic passageway.

They were back again, at the central chamber that they had infiltrated just weeks ago – but this time, it was just them. No guild in the halls, distracting the soldiers, and no disemboweled corpse resting at the foot of the stairs as a grisly sign of greeting.

"There's no one here."

Andrew had whispered, but his words had still echoed in the enormous chamber, and Benjamin whipped around, a deadly glare upon his face.

" _Quiet! Do you want all of them to hear us?!"_

But they're not here, Andrew wanted to say, and refrained because he did not want to anger Benjamin further – not when alertness was key.

" _They're still in the hallways. And the one with the blue eyes is still there."_

It was as if Benjamin had read his mind – although Andrew wondered how he knew, with such certainty that _Quintus_ was still by his dead Commander's side.

However, as both of them fell silent, the complete absence of noise becoming more deafening than a scream, the quiet clicking and ticking of gears and metal could be heard – it was faint, so faint that Andrew had at first been convinced that he was hallucinating, but when it persisted he realized that Benjamin was indeed correct.

This would complicate things.

Placing a single hand lightly on the pistol strapped to his belt, Andrew cautiously ascended the steep staircase, keeping in step with Benjamin the entire time.

"Drop your hand," Benjamin whispered before their heads would become visible from the top, "The last thing we want to do is appear threatening."

Because then he will call the guards and we will be done for, Andrew realized, and obeyed.

They continued up.

"You have returned," Quintus stated, in a manner that was so matter-of-factly that it almost seemed like he had been expecting them. The dried blood of his dead Commander was still on his gloves, and Andrew held his sleeve to his nose as the stench from the corpse finally reached him.

"Yes," Ben said, equally as even and equally as emotionless even though the dead body of his childhood friend was just a few feet away, "we have." He held his hands up, wrists above his head, to show that he was unarmed, and Quintus lowered his readied rifle just a few inches, but not enough so that he would not be able to react if one of them suddenly became a _threat._

"You were the ones who took Jewel. I remember you."

Quintus' eyes looked into both of theirs, one at a time, unblinking and eerily still. He did not _feel emotions,_ Andrew reminded himself, he was a _clockwork,_ but it was hard to believe that, with the look he was receiving from the soldier now.

Pleading, desperate, in denial –

Or perhaps it was all in Andrew's own imagination – he certainly would not have put it past himself.

"We did – I mean, I – we _were."_ Andrew stuttered, finding himself quite unable to draw his own eyes away. He had never thought, in all of his years, that he would be conversing with a clockwork without immediate threats of death and torture and imprisonment, and yet here he was.

"I assure you, soldier – "

 _His name is Quintus._

"We mean no harm," Benjamin said, his hands still raised. It was uncertain whether the clockwork believed them, since the last time that they had come here, it was with an entourage of guild members, each bearing two or more firearms.

"My Commander is tired. She is exhausted. The ruling of a legion has drained her."

"It is tiring work," Benjamin agreed, "And I am sure that she does indeed need her rest."

Andrew turned his head sharply, staring at his cousin with incredulousness.

"Ben, what are you – "

" _Ssh!"_

Andrew fell silent. Quintus was still staring at them, his rifle clenched at waist level in his shaking hands. It was almost possible to _hear_ his thought process –

 _Is this a form of deception, to disturb my Commander further, to impede her rest –_

 _I will NOT allow it!_

But yet –

 _They are unarmed. Surely they will not be so reckless as to attack my Commander when she is guarded._

In the end, the latter strain seemed to win, for Quintus lowered his rifle fully.

"You also wish for the best for my Commander?"

The question was _innocent,_ almost – so much so that neither of them dared to even get _close_ to bursting the delicate bubble of illusion that they had worked so hard to create, convincing him that they were just here to help, that they believed in his delusional state of denial.

"Yes. I have known her since we were both children. I wish only to help her regain her health again."

He was not _lying,_ Andrew internally mused, they would take her back to the ship, and back to Zachary to be restored – and being alive, by any measure, would be considered _healthier_ than being _dead._

"Then you will help her rest? So that she is undisturbed?"

"I will, and I swear by it." Benjamin's words were more solemn than any eulogy that could ever be given.

Andrew was suddenly unsure of whether this was still a ruse.

Benjamin took a slow step towards Quintus and Andrew tensed, but relaxed again upon seeing that the musketeer had not made any move to raise or fire his rifle. He trusted them now, as was according to their plan.

Edging past Quintus, Benjamin continued on, kneeling down next to the unrecognizable corpse of Sydney Underhill, a mixture of disgust and horror and mourning written all over his face.

"Andrew, come here." He was trying his hardest to remain calm, beckoning his cousin over, but Quintus quickly blocked his path.

"Let him through, soldier – it's all right. He's with me. We're just going to help."

Quintus stepped out of the way.

Benjamin looked over at the small pile of rotten flesh, so dark that it almost blended into the stone beneath it.

 _That's her face, her FACE –_

Squeezing his eyes shut, he stretched out an arm and gingerly lifted it up with two fingers, revealing a swarm of maggots and insects which had taken shelter underneath it. It was fortunate that he had closed his eyes – otherwise he would have lost all composure and screamed and vomited at the same time.

The rotten flesh that was once Sydney Underhill's face was placed on top of her chest. Benjamin opened his eyes, still not daring to look back to the corner that he had retrieved it from, in fear of what nightmare-inducing sights he would find.

"Help me lift her."

Andrew balked.

" _Now!"_

There was urgency in his voice and tears in his eyes and Andrew obeyed at once with the utmost dread, mirroring Benjamin's actions as he slid his hands underneath her body – one under her back and another under her knees – and stood, lifting her from the ground.

Benjamin removed his coat and draped it over her torso and head, the latter of which they had both avoided looking at because they _knew_ what was there –

 _Rotting, putrefying flesh, maggots tunneling, tunneling, tunneling._

Both of them exchanged glances – for support, for the strength that they needed – before shuffling back towards the stairway in an awkward side-step. Back to the ship it was.

" _Stop! You are not to take her!"_

That did it – Quintus had drawn his rifle again, on the both of them this time, and Andrew's heart leapt into his throat.

Would they be shot here, he wondered, and add to the growing body pile?

Benjamin somehow had managed to stay calm – at least externally.

"We mean no harm."

" _Then what do you mean by taking her?!"_

"You said she had been disturbed here," Benjamin said, with such coolness and certainty that Andrew was amazed at the speed at which he could think on his feet, "we only mean to move her to a place where she can sleep quietly."

" _I cannot allow it!"_

"But you just – "

" _I have a duty to her – I must follow her orders; I cannot leave her!"_

Andrew's eyes widened as he understood.

They could not be separated, mistress and servant – even if one of them was more decayed than whole – and suddenly, the solution dawned upon him, a solution for how to make this _work_ without alerting the guards and retrieving the corpse safely.

"Then you will not _have_ to leave her."

"I – "

"You'll come with us, and stay by your Commander's side."

* * *

 **I hope you enjoyed, and please do leave a review!**

 **\- Severina**


	32. Chapter 32

**Chapter 32: Willing Hostage**

They were about to squeeze themselves back into the same opening that they had crawled in from, with Underhill's body in tow between them both, but when Quintus didn't move to follow them, they stopped.

"Do you want to come with us or not?" Andrew couldn't keep the irritation out of his voice, not at this point – they were risking all of their lives, with the hundreds of soldiers on patrol within the hallways while they tried to steal the corpse of their Commander.

"We will not go through those crevices."

Benjamin sighed, his jaw briefly tensing.

"We haven't exactly found any other – "

"The hallways." Quintus said, as if it was as plain as day.

"There are soldiers _everywhere!"_ Andrew all but screamed, only barely managing to keep his voice down, "They'll _kill_ us on sight!"

"They obey my Commander. They shall not harm her."

Andrew looked at the corpse in his arms. He had become miraculously desensitized to the smell of decay, ever since they had brought Jewel aboard, and although it did not cease to bother him entirely, this was much more preferable than having the constant urge to vomit.

 _She's dead,_ he almost shouted, but refrained at the last second – they had to keep up this façade, they had to play along, at least for now. For now, she was not dead – she was just sleeping, because running an Armada on one's own was exhausting work and she needed her rest, she needed it badly – it would be detrimental to her health if she neglected herself further!

Then again, he did have a point.

The clockworks would not harm one of their own – if he were to walk before them, then they would not harm them either. Clockworks did not have ulterior motives, they did not have corrupt intentions – therefore blind trust was totally and completely possible, and with much less consequences as there would have been, had Sydney's army been human.

"Follow me. I advise you to keep close."

Quintus did not turn to make sure that they had heeded his words, that they were following him – he just moved forwards, calmly, his rifle held evenly in his pale, bloody, gloved hands.

Andrew looked back at Ben pleadingly. Ben shrugged.

"Well, _follow him!"_

Andrew stumbled forwards, awkwardly walking backwards, his arms supporting Sydney's clothed knees and jacket. The fabric was hardened by her own dried blood, but it was better than feeling the softness of decaying flesh.

They walked in step with each other, being careful not to move _too_ fast, but also not to move too slowly – even from where they were now, they could hear the sounds of the clockwork patrols, and it would be best, as Quintus had said, to _stay close._

Or they, perhaps, would be mistaken for _intruders._

Which is what they truly were, Andrew internally mused, but he was not in the mood to die anytime soon, and was almost certain that his cousin shared the same mentality.

Sure enough, Quintus had been true to his words – as soon as the clockworks caught sight of him, all of them immediately halted and saluted him, clearing a pathway for him – as well as Andrew and Ben – to pass through.

"You see now – they will not harm you, not when they obey her." Quintus gestured once, only slightly, to the soldiers on either side of them and Ben and Andrew exchanged uncomfortable glances.

The soldiers were supporting Quintus, they knew, not the rotting corpse that they were grasping within their arms. But he had not accepted that, and it was not likely that he ever would – not when the realization would make it impossible for him to fulfill his orders.

As he led them onwards, Ben found that he could not help but pity him.

Quintus was emotionless, yes – but he showed more loyalty and devotion than any other human soldier that he had ever seen.

It was one thing to protect someone until their death – but to continue this duty _after_ death had occurred, to guard and hover over the corpse of a fallen Commander like a mad dog –

There was a type of purity that lay within this disillusion that was very difficult to find, nowadays.

Although he did not dare to speak while they were within a literal crowd of clockworks, he followed Andrew's eyes, he studied his body language and found that Andrew was thinking the same thing.

This was not what the clockworks had been made out to be.

They were not villains, they were not evil, tyrannical creatures with power and greed being their only motives.

Rather, they were simply heartless.

They followed their orders like the machines they were, and that was that. To the Armada, nothing else mattered – humanity was a foreign concept to them, as was mercy and pity and all of those other nuances that drove mortal beings to falter and become weak, or to save the lives of others.

This was the first time that they had seen the hallways since they had first discovered the tunnels system – and it was only now that they were able to see the damage that they had done in the name of locating the central chamber.

Entire walls had been collapsed, in some cases, and debris littered the ground, as did small pieces of shrapnel and string and other such materials – remnants of the tireless efforts of the guild.

Andrew felt the corpse slipping from his grip and he jostled her, trying to regain his hold, groaning internally as he felt the flesh of her thighs give way underneath her bloodstained clothing.

And he had thought that _Jewel_ was bad.

Yes, Jewel had been disemboweled – but somehow, that was less nightmarish than a faceless cadaver that had been left to rot for weeks after. He pressed his lips into a line and internally prayed that the walk back, now that he had taken it once, would seem shorter than the last time.

Through the tunnels, over piles of rubble and stone, they followed the clockwork until they could see sunlight, eventually emerging onto the stone staircase that led down from the pyramid. Quintus descended and they did likewise, but then he had stopped unexpectedly at the bottom of the staircase, staring blankly at a slate of stone that was a few inches above the shallow water that had flooded the entire area.

"She is gone."

 _Samantha._

"We took her. Just like we took Jewel. Your _Commander_ put her there in the first place," Andrew said, unable to keep the venom out of his voice – he may have felt some shred of sympathy for the clockwork at first, but now it angered him, hearing Quintus stand by her regardless of her actions, knowing that he would not and would never condemn her, no matter how atrocious Sydney Underhill's actions had been.

"My Commander never placed her there. She came out here."

"But she _killed_ her, didn't she?"

Andrew, stop, Ben wanted to say, but Quintus hadn't reacted badly yet and he was against fixing something that wasn't broken.

"No. My Commander did not kill Samantha Hawkins."

"Then – "

"I did."

He said nothing more on the matter. Instead, he turned and walked away, back towards the deep jungle, leaving Benjamin and Andrew no choice but to hurry after them, their rotting charge jostling between them.

 _Quintus killed Samantha?!_

He bit his lip nervously. They were taking them _both_ back to the ship, Sydney and her soldier – which would mean that Samantha would be in close confines with her own murderer.

Samantha was a kind and understanding person, yes, and maybe even a little too forgiving – but he doubted that something like _this_ would sit well with _anyone,_ even her.

However, he couldn't talk to Ben about it now – not with Quintus in earshot – lest he accidentally divulge the information that Samantha was alive. So he did the only thing he could do, and he continued to move forwards.

* * *

Zachary wiped his hands off on the rag that hung from his belt, perched precariously on the railing of the ship, heaving a bored sigh.

They weren't back yet.

Yes, he _knew_ that it was a long walk, and one that they would have to take carefully if they wanted to come back alive, but the silence of the anchored ships bothered him like an itch he couldn't scratch. There was not a soul on deck, aside from him – they had all hidden below.

And it was no wonder, after they had seen –

"There you are!"

His thoughts were lost to the sight of Benjamin and Andrew emerging from the collapsed stone structure that served as the entrance, another cloth-covered figure borne between them –

As well as the clockwork soldier that trailed a few feet behind them.

Zachary's heart leapt into his throat – this must be one of _Sydney's_ soldiers, he thought, ensuring that their Commander is not taken from them, he's going to shoot - !

" _Andrew! Look out!"_

Sprinting to the gangplank, Zachary raised his staff, gathering all the energy within him to –

" _No!_ Don't hurt him!"

Zachary was confused and shocked and angry all at the same time.

"Why not?! He's going to _kill_ you!" He didn't even know why he had _listened_ to Andrew in the first place.

"He agreed to come here! He serves…well, _her._ " Andrew gestured down to the body that he and Benjamin were holding and Zachary understood. This soldier was to follow her – to guard her. He still didn't _trust_ the situation, however.

"Take her down below," Zachary said, keeping a wary eye on the clockwork as he saw them aboard, leading them below decks and to the empty room that he had prepared. It was even smaller than his own cabin, maybe half of the size – but it was just enough to fit the long table that she would remain on for the next indefinite amount of time. "Put her there."

Andrew and Ben had to rotate, shifting Sydney's weight between them so that Andrew had his arms hooked under their shoulders and Benjamin was lifting her knees.

"Andrew, move backwards – careful, watch the table!"

Moving slightly to the side to avoid clipping his hip on the table, Andrew carefully maneuvered through the small gap between the table and the wall until he was all the way at the other side of the room, allowing them both to lift her form onto the table without much grief or difficulty.

"And she will be undisturbed here?"

All three of them whipped around, their hearts in their mouths and their blood running cold.

It was just Quintus.

However, to Zachary, _just Quintus_ meant an enemy soldier, a heartless entity that would kill them in little more than seconds. He wouldn't attack, no – but the fear was there, the fear that had only been solidified after he had seen dozens of soldiers that looked _exactly_ like him swarming the island, setting fire to anything that they found, shooting anyone they saw.

"Rest assured, she will be."

Zachary looked at the corpse on the table.

Her face was covered by the jacket that had been laid over her, but he could already get a sense of the abysmal condition that the body was in by simply looking at the hand that emerged from beneath the fabric.

The flesh was the same consistency that Jewel's organs had been – he did not even have to touch her to confirm it. It had lost all firmness, and Zachary was quite awed with the fact that his two comrades were able to carry her back to the ship without completely destroying her.

However, this now presented a new problem – she would not remain intact for long, not in this state.

And he still had some _progress_ to make on Jewel.

"Move back."

He wriggled out of the narrow room, pushing the other three back and closing the door.

"What are you doing?!"

A cold grip closed around his shoulder, threatening to push him to the ground. Quintus, who was trapped behind him, was struggling to get free – to get to his Commander. Zachary didn't respond, only resolving to hold his ground.

It was clear that Quintus wouldn't make this pleasant.

Channeling a large portion of his energy through his fingertips, Zachary touched his palms to the door, closing his eyes and concentrating hard until sweat dripped from his forehead, until a green glow could be faintly seen from underneath the door.

Zachary drew back, panting hard.

"It'll stop…"

Stop the decay process, but Quintus was standing right there and the last thing he wanted to make the clockwork soldier do was go into full panic mode. None of the others knew about him. Not yet. It wasn't the right time.

"It'll stop anything from happening to her."

Until I finish fixing Jewel. He couldn't say that one either.

"That is my function – my function…to protect her -!" Quintus bolted forwards, grabbing the door handle and rattling it, only to find it locked.

" _I must!"_

He nearly tore the handle right off of its bolts, pounding against the door with his fist even though it had nearly no effect as he tried to get to his Commander because he needed to _guard_ her while she slept, he couldn't _see_ what was being done to her in here!

"Let me in – open the door! My Commander is – "

"She's _safe_ in there," Andrew insisted, his voice hushed for worry of alerting the others on board, "I swear – "

"I must follow my orders!"

"You _can't!_ "

The magic that Zachary had installed made it dangerous for anyone, and hence he had made it inaccessible.

"I MUST!" Quintus' voice reached a deafening level and he threw himself against the door, trying to knock it down, break it down, anything to let him be with his Commander again, so that he could fulfill his orders, so that he could keep her safe.

But then hands were pulling him away, they were holding his arms to his sides, and there was a sharp, short impact delivered to his head and he crumpled to the ground, able to see the blurry shapes of the door and the floor and the wall and able to hear the muffled noises of the three men speaking, but no longer able to move.

"Oh my _God…_ what do we _do_ with him…?!" Andrew whispered, looking to his cousin in panic.

There was no _way_ that Quintus would cooperate with them, not now.

"We hide him. He can't stay a secret from the crew forever, but now's not the right time, not with things as they are."

He was right, Andrew realized, he always was.

"Then where?"

"I'll handle it," Benjamin said, kneeling down and easily lifting Quintus' limp frame into his arms, "You go up on deck. It was nearly deserted when we came back – go see what's going on."

He turned and walked away without another word, most likely back to his private cabin. Andrew nudged the dropped Armada musketeer rifle on the floor with the tip of his boot. Quintus was harmless now.

The slight breeze on deck was welcome, especially after having carried a corpse for longer than he would ever want to, and he closed his eyes, taking a deep breath and releasing it, letting the tension go right along with it.

There was no one on deck. Andrew turned his head, looking over the other four ships – deserted also. Everyone was below, hiding.

"They're all scared."

Andrew spun around, internally cursing Zachary for sneaking up on him like he always had so many _damn_ times.

"Scared? What of? Did they see the _Fife_ again?"

"No – worse. They saw two Armada ships earlier – probably from Prima's Skull Island patrol."

 _Oh, God._

"Did they see us?"

"No – they weren't even in Tradewinds Skyway for more than ten seconds. I think they're expanding their patrol ring – but slowly."

"They're spreading? But what if Hunter attacks them _now?"_

It didn't make any sense. Prima's fleet had a limited number of ships, and spreading them out so far made her open and vulnerable.

"That's the scariest part," Zachary replied, "they're coming closer – but we don't know why."

* * *

 **I hope you enjoyed, and do be sure to leave a review!  
**

 **\- Severina**


	33. Chapter 33

**Chapter 33: Haunted**

All he could see were flowers.

Here and there and left and right –

Endless rolling hills of pink and blue and purple and green, the breeze blowing through smelling sweet on its own. Hunter blinked. This was impossible.

He could not see any ships from where he was, he could not see the gigantic mess of flotsam that made up the survivors' camp, he could not see the stone streets of the island –

Just this paradise, for miles and miles and miles.

Hunter sighed, in bliss, perhaps, letting his feet drag amongst the various blossoms as he walked – here, there was no pain and there was no sadness and there was nothing, and he never wanted to leave, God, he never wanted to leave this place.

Seconds turned into minutes turned into hours.

And then he saw a tree.

It was just a speck at first, far off in the distance, dark against the bright, colorful flowers surrounding his feet, suffocating the earth beneath him – but as he came closer, he could see the auburn color of its leaves, how its branches swayed in the wind.

Strangely enough, he found himself running faster – he didn't know _why,_ he just knew he had to get to that tree, he simply _had to._

Hunter approached the bottom of the last hill, atop which the tree waited for him, stable and sturdy and as steadfast as ever.

The hill was steep – it was much bigger now that he was standing feet away from it, but he started to climb nevertheless, taking slow, heavy steps to make sure that he would not fall and roll down to the bottom and be forced to start all over again.

 _What's taking you so long,_ the wind seemed to whisper to him, rushing around him and making him shiver, _you don't want to see me?_

He climbed faster.

The wind had quite a beautiful voice –

" _Dangler?!"_

Just barely daring to hope, Hunter raised his head to look up at the tree, only to realize that all of his wildest dreams had come true. At the top of the hill stood Dangler, her body strong and voluptuous and healthy, her glossy-curly hair floating over her back and shoulders like an enormous cloud.

She smiled at him with full, red lips, and he ran to her, the distance between them closing at an agonizingly slow rate.

"Dangler…! Dangler, I'm here, I'm here…!"

She laughed and it echoed forever as she lifted her arms and spun, as if she was dancing, her skirts of bright red silk and chiffon whirling around her.

 _Every bit, every ounce my lioness,_ Hunter thought, and he grabbed at the flowers with his hands, tearing some of them out of the earth in his frantic attempt to get to her, to reach her so that he could hold her in his arms again, so that he could merely _witness_ her marvelous existence that made him whole, that made him alive, that he would be incomplete without.

Had he finally gone mad?

 _If so, then I'll welcome it._

Had he joined her in death, perhaps?

 _Even better._

Nothing else mattered in this paradise – he had her, and that was all he needed, that was all that he cared about.

But now that he was closer than he had ever been to the love of his life in months, it became clear that something was extremely wrong.

The flowers clenched in his fingertips had turned red, and the leaves were being wrenched from their branches, now brittle and dry rather than vibrant.

And likewise, Dangler herself had faltered as well – her twirling seemed to be more of a dizzied stagger than anything else, and as she turned back towards Hunter, allowing him to get a glimpse of her face, he saw that her eyes had become clouded and sunken again, and that her face, her arms, her body was becoming thinner and thinner by the second.

She was dying. Again. In front of him.

" _No!"_

The blue sky was now grey and the branches were bare, the flowers were withered and crumbled underneath his fingertips as he finally, _finally_ reached the top of the hill and sprinted towards Dangler – _Dangler,_ who was falling apart all over again.

" _Hunter…Hunter, my love…help me…help me, please…!"_

She was rooted in place and her lips were cracked. She stretched out a hand towards him, collapsing to her knees, skin yellowed, eyes sunken and bruised.

He could see the bones of her joints stretching against the flesh above it.

"Dangler…Dangler, it's okay, I'm here…!" He yelled, gasping for breath as he slowed to a halt, dropping to his knees before her and reaching for her hand, reaching for _her –_

But the instant he touched her, she heaved a great sigh and her body dissolved into a flurry of ashes, the wind sweeping them away. He screamed and grabbed handfuls of the ash at his knees, handfuls of _her,_ but the fragments slipped through his fingers altogether and he tore at his hair and he _wailed,_ crying and cursing the God that had laid such cruelty upon them both.

" _GIVE HER BACK!"_

The last of the ash blew away. The tree had been reduced to dried, withered branches.

" _GIVE HER BACK, DAMN IT!"_

His eyes burned with tears and the wind howled, laughing at him. The flowers, dead and cold, crunched under his feet.

" _NO! Damn you, DAMN YOU, NO!"_

He dropped to his knees, scraping up clumps of the crumbled earth, ripping his own nails from his flesh as he brought handfuls of dried, wasted dirt to his lips, kissing it like he would her skin in hopes that _some_ fragments of her were still here, in his hands, and not lost –

" _Dangler, Dangler, no…! Can't lose you, can't….! NO!...!"_

Drenched in his own sweat, Hunter sat bolt upright in the box bed, heaving with wheezing gasps, his heart in his throat.

All a dream.

His leg wound burned like fire. It had not healed properly – instead, it had become swollen and yellow, and fever had taken hold of his body and mind.

"Dangler," he gasped, his throat dry, "come…come _back_ …wait for me…"

Something cold was pressed to his head and he flinched, fists curled in the bedcovers. A healer was standing above him, one hand holding the wet cloth to his forehead as he mopped away the sweat.

"You had a nightmare, sir. Nothing's happened."

Hunter blinked slowly, trying to force himself back into lucidity.

 _A nightmare?_

"She's…she's not…"

"Nothing's happened to her, sir."

The healer wasn't _wrong –_ nothing had happened to Dangler since her death. She was still sitting in an urn on Hunter's desk, scraps of what she once was. That hadn't changed. However, he spared Hunter the details – in this state, that would not do any good for either of them.

His breathing slowly returning to a normal rate, Hunter fell back onto his pillow, dazed and exhausted, but finally awake.

"I hope you'll forgive me…there…there are others who need help…" Hunter murmured, only vaguely aware of the healer's motions next to him as he drew back the blankets to inspect his leg wound, assessing _just_ how bad it had gotten.

"The others are being tended to, sir – not to worry."

Hunter relaxed visibly.

It was a lie. These "others" that Hunter was referring to were the sick and the wounded, and most of them were dead.

There was a knock on the door and not two seconds later, a scout burst in, a wrinkled letter clutched in his fist. The healer quickly stood, barring him entry.

"Mr. Chamberlain, I'm afraid, is not in good health."

"Apologies, but...I have important – "

"He will be _unable_ to receive your message at the time."

"No – it's all right," Hunter rasped, slowly sitting up, "let him through."

Reluctantly, the healer stepped aside – if Hunter was well enough to talk and to make conscious, logical decisions of his own, then surely that was a good sign, after the countless days of endless, feverish hysteria. It had all been caused by that ghastly wound, the one that he claimed had been made by Sydney Underhill.

Passing by quickly, the scout offered a short salute to Hunter, out of breath and clearly distressed.

"Sir, I…I'm afraid I – "

"Calm down." Hunter looked him dead in the eyes, somehow stable even in his own state. He needed to be a leader, both in sickness and in health – the scout was no more than a boy, probably seventeen at the most – he was terrified. "Tell me what happened."

"Some of our men have gone missing. There's been no sign of them for _days."_

"Which men?"

"The supply crew, sir."

 _Shit._

The numerous survivors had taken it upon themselves to venture out into the skyway in rotations to scavenge for supplies among the wreckages drifting nearby – it was a dangerous job, as they could easily be discovered by the Armada or by something _else._ Anything could have happened to them.

"And that's not all, sir – the Armada patrols are expanding!"

"Expanding…? But how _could_ they…?" The last time that Hunter had been up on deck, there had been very few clockwork ships in the skyway – indicating that Prima had taken up a more defensive tactic. "Are there _more_ of them?"

"Yes – just a few days ago there had been no ships at _all!"_

No ships at all, Hunter thought, how long _was_ I out for?

"And now?"

"Now they're overlapping into…into _Tradewinds,_ sir, and they're closer than before by far – they've come even closer than the nearest wreckage!"

" _Damn_ it all!" Hunter growled, his fists clenching – this would mean no more supply crews, this would mean unease all around and reduced rations and eventually, if nothing was done, starvation.

And then, there was the inevitability of being discovered.

How much longer would they have? There was only so much space within the Skyways, after all – the patrols would find them eventually, all in due time.

"Is that _all?"_ Hunter tried his best not to sound angry, or spiteful – the boy was just doing his job – but it was difficult, when he had just received the word that his world had turned upside down.

"Y-yes, sir," the scout stammered, "and this was also delivered for you."

He dropped the crumpled letter that he had been holding into Hunter's lap.

"I hope your health returns to you quickly, sir," he said, and ran out the door.

Hunter looked down at his lap, fishing the letter up from the blankets and smoothing it out between his fingertips, eventually able to make out his name on the front, scrawled in crude, rushed handwriting. It had been sealed with a glob of putty, the same type that the Marleybonian engineers used in their workplaces. He carefully peeled it off, unfolding the paper and holding the letter out in front of him.

It was from Benjamin, he knew – he recognized the signature at the very bottom.

However, unlike the last time, the letter was not made up of drawn out paragraphs or detailed reports –

Rather, it was a single line of writing, panicked and shaky, stray drops of ink splattered over the rest of the page.

 _We've retrieved Sydney's corpse from the tunnels. She's isn't in your skyway._

Hunter swallowed hard, gripping the letter so hard in his hands that he nearly tore the paper straight through.

"Her…her _corpse…?!"_

The healer, who had been silently waiting by his side the entire time, leaned towards him, concern and confusion both evident on his face.

"Sir?"

Hunter looked up, slightly paler than before, motioning to the letter.

"She's dead. Underhill's dead." His mouth felt numb as he repeated the words, not quite able to process what he had just read and said.

Underhill's dead.

The wound on his leg burned.

" _How can it be…?"_

It was her, it _had_ to be her, with the grey eyes and the black hair, aboard the ship that was littered with corpses, with the remains of her victims – she had murdered seven and wounded him, she had struck him delusional with fever and hallucinations of his lost love.

The one that _she_ killed.

Yes, there was no doubt, it _had_ to be her –

 _We've retrieved Sydney's corpse from the tunnels._

The tunnels – where she had fought and stabbed and murdered Dangler, where she had barricaded herself in, and with a stab of fear greater than anything he had ever felt, Hunter realized that she had _never left._

Ultimately, she had died surrounded by traces, evidence of her own insanity, with her blue-eyed soldier by her side and the cadaver of her shipmate below her throne.

She had never left, and yet, it was _her_ who had bitten him and killed several of the survivors already, ripping them apart with her teeth –

Her teeth that were in rows upon rows upon rows, housed in a mouth that stretched down further than a giant snake's, unhinged and torn and bloody, her red eyes gleaming like two little rubies above.

 _That explains it,_ he realized with horror.

She had never left the tunnels.

And what he was fighting _wasn't alive._

* * *

 **I hope you enjoyed, and do be sure to leave a review!**

 **\- Severina**


	34. Chapter 34

**Chapter 34: The Missing Men**

Crouching low in the boat, the six men who were the week's unfortunate supply crew volunteers held their breaths and prayed.

Just days ago, the sky had been clear of ships, with all of the clockwork patrols having unexplainably docked at the island – but now, they had returned, and in a swarm, too. It was not regular behavior, of course, from clockwork ships – but these were not regular times.

They had covered themselves with the old black sail that they had taken with them, but that did not make their boat disappear – it just gave them a greater chance.

" _Can you see them?"_

Shifting slightly, the man closest to the bow lifted the sail just enough to allow him to see out.

" _Shit."_

" _What is it?"_

But the man at the bow only lowered the sail and frantically motioned for them to _keep quiet._ They understood – they understood, each and every one of them, that they were most likely in their final minutes of freedom.

It was something that had weighed on each of their hearts when they had volunteered themselves. Their discovery was not _unexpected,_ not when the Armada held full control over the island, but although they had already accepted this as an occupational hazard, that did not make it any less terrifying.

Faintly, through the fabric of the sail, they could hear the creaking of wood, the _rt-rt-rt_ of the turbine sail as it turned, propelling the ship forwards.

The slight tapping sound as a musketeer walked across the deck, his frame so light that the sound was barely there at all. The Armada ship was much closer than they thought – yes, that's what this meant, it meant that their doom was much closer –

The longboat that the men had huddled in jolted suddenly, causing several of them to shout.

"What's happened?!"

"They've hooked onto us!"

Sure enough, a large metal hook had been thrown over the edge of the longboat, its barbed tip embedded so deeply into the wood that it would be _impossible_ to pry it out, at the speed that they were currently being pulled. There was a thud as they collided with the side of the Armada frigate that had discovered them, and at that moment, any chance of their escape was vanquished.

"Search it."

The voice came from an Armada officer somewhere on deck, and the longboat tipped and pitched as more weight was added to it.

" _Jeremy, what IS that?!"_

The man at the bow – Jeremy – didn't even have time to answer before the sail was flung off from them, exposing them to the cold wind and the confirming gazes of about thirty clockworks before each of them were hit with multiple low intensity stunning charges from every direction, fired from the musketeers on deck.

They crumpled to the bottom of the boat, still conscious, still able to see and hear and breathe, but unable to move, at least for now. One by one, the marine who had stepped into the longboat crudely hauled them up the side of the ship before returning five more times.

"Shall we terminate them, sir?"

The question was posed to a musketeer officer in a coat that was much more elaborate than his comrades. The Captain, most likely.

"Negative. Take them to the Supreme Commander. She will want them." He stalked off without another word. His orders had been clear enough.

There was no need to restrain them as the Armada frigate turned, crushing the longboat to splinters on its way back to the island – the charges had temporarily paralyzed them, they could not speak or move – therefore they posed no threat.

Although they could not have been more than twenty minutes' sail away from Skull Island, to the captured men on deck, it seemed like hours.

All of them had sworn to silence. They knew what was going to happen.

At best, they would be killed quickly – brought before Prima Militus in her high-collared coat, looking like the regal queen that she _wasn't_ (she was a puppet obeying her invisible strings, just like all of them were), and shot. However, knowing that the clockworks did not yet know the location of the survivors' sanctuary, it was unlikely that she would let them die without extracting whatever information she could first.

They could _not_ betray those who were counting on them.

Although they had failed in retrieving the much-needed supplies undetected, they would not fail _further_ and sacrifice the rest of the survivors.

Prima was unrelenting. And they would be, too.

They were put into shackles as soon as the ship anchored and roughly frog-marched down the gangplank and across the newly-constructed bridges that were built in place of the demolished docks, two marines on either side of each of them, gripping their arms with impossible, iron strength.

It was then that they were dragged through the ruins of the island that had once been the haven, the home to thousands of pirates, survivors, refugees from all parts of the spiral.

The beaches were nearly destroyed, the sand tossed everywhichway and the wooden shacks and trees nothing but a pile of charred remains, black and scattered.

The shops were vacant, crumbling, destroyed – and there was, of course, the overwhelming smell of death in the air.

Jeremy snagged his foot on what had at first _appeared_ to be a partially buried, burned log – but when it gave way beneath his foot, the mushy matter still clinging onto his shoe, he realized with horror that it was in fact a _corpse,_ one of the many victims of Prima's attack, and was promptly sick all over his own boots.

He could hear similar reactions from the others behind him.

And they still had yet to face the Commander.

Effortlessly, the marines hoisted them up the stone staircase and into the court of Avery's manor – only for each and every one of them to behold the most horrific sight that they could not have conjured even in their wildest, most fearsome nightmares.

There was a gallows, just next to the shattered life fountain – ten bloodstained, empty nooses swinging from the frame. They were not in use, there were no soldiers maintaining them – but that was because there was no longer a need.

Just a little to the right of the vacant structure was a literal wall of corpses, piled at least fifteen feet high, the ones at the bottom decayed to an unrecognizable state, the ones at the top the most recently killed.

The survivors. The ones that hid, that ushered their families away to safety, only to be dragged out by their heels and executed for existing.

Prima had shown no mercy – not to a single one of them.

There was a suffocating cloud of flies and gnats and other pests and parasites surrounding the grisly pile, the crude mass grave of the island's population as they made a meal out of the mounds of putrefied flesh. Jeremy was numb.

He could not cry or scream.

There truly was no one left to save – no one trapped under Prima's regime, no one enslaved by the clockworks.

They were all gone.

Hunter's survivors were the sole remnants of this once populous haven.

He could hear the others, too – they had been stunned into silence just as he had been – but he was _sure_ that this would be a sight that would haunt them to the grave – which they were most likely very close to being in.

Up the stairs, the steep stairs, the blood-soaked stairs, until they were at what once was Avery's manor.

Now, it looked like a crude, lifeless fortress – or a prison. The windows were reinforced and barely left uncovered, and stone blockades had replaced more than half of the once-intricate structure. Two clockwork dragoons flanked the doorway.

"We have recovered survivors from the skyway."

The dragoons didn't need any further clarification – they stepped to the side, pulling the doors open and allowing the six pairs of marines to march through.

Now Jeremy was scared.

This wasn't a nightmare – this was real and he was _here,_ at the mercy of the Supreme Commander.

She was standing in the center of the room, engaged in a conversation with a patrol officer – but then, she had obviously sensed them enter somehow, and turned to face them, the train of her enormous coat trailing on the carpeted floor behind her.

"What's this?"

"Survivors, Commander. From the skyway."

"And where are the _rest_ of them? They're not _alone."_

She was right in that, Jeremy knew, they were not alone – but he would be damned if he betrayed them in what was probably his last few hours, or even minutes of life.

"They were _found_ alone, Commander, in a longboat."

"And there were no signs of others around them? This many men in one boat cannot survive on their own for long. They could not have been alone."

"Negative, Commander."

Apparently having come to the conclusion that their capture did _not_ immediately give away the whereabouts of the rest of the survivors, Prima turned towards them, looking them up and down as if they were dissected specimens.

She was probably already thinking of what they looked like turned inside out, Jeremy thought, and shivered. He had expected the clockwork leader to be a mad tyrant, drunk with power – even though he knew they were clockworks, it had been impossible to imagine her otherwise. It was the only image that seemed _possible,_ after seeing the wall of corpses, of her _victims,_ after seeing what she had done to this island and its people.

And yet, she was nothing of the sort – she was not quick to anger, she was not fanatical.

Prima was simply a clockwork, doing what she was meant to do. And this was even _more_ terrifying.

She had no eyes – just empty sockets – but Jeremy could still feel her staring at him, through him, as much as if she had been human.

"They were found alone…?"

"They appeared to be searching wreckages, Commander."

"Is that so…?" Prima seemed to speak more to herself than to anyone else.

Without uttering another word, she tilted her head to her right, turned, and walked away. Seconds later, a pair of marines broke form and followed her, dragging their charge between them.

"You devils, _murderers!"_

 _Stephen._

He fought against them and they held him fast, subduing him with blows to the head and torso eventually – but he never once begged for freedom, he never was reduced to pleading before their merciless enemy. He remained proud. Jeremy swore that he would hold himself to that very same standard.

The marines disappeared into the adjacent room that their Commander had gone into, closing the door behind them.

Jeremy knew what would happen, and so did the rest of them – they accepted it solemnity, and only feared the unknown factor of _how_ they would meet their end.

Would luck shine upon them and drive her to strike them down cleanly?

They were quickly proven wrong – although the door was thick and blocked out most of the sound from travelling between the two rooms, they were still clearly able to hear a man's dying screams of agony, wrenched from his throat without his will, and woven into that, Prima's calm, even voice. It lasted forever.

Eventually, Jeremy found himself wishing for Stephen to just hurry up and _die,_ to not prolong his own torment, as well as the mental torment of those others waiting in line to meet the very same fate.

The door opened after some time and the next pair of marines walked in. They were going from one end of the line to the other, Jeremy realized.

That would make him the last one.

 _Oh, God._

 _Out of all the possible –_

No, he corrected himself, forcibly stilling his shaking legs and standing up a little straighter as the next one was taken in, and then the next, and the next, and the next, his own grisly death inching just a little closer with every passing second, no, you will not be weak.

You will not give in.

You will not betray them – _you will not give her what she wants._

The marines were pushing him forwards now and he was too numb to thrash or struggle like the first few had, he could barely even move his legs of his own accord, he was so dumbstruck with disbelief – disbelief at how _this_ was going to be his final fate, at how _unafraid_ and _unresponsive_ he was, even in the very face of it.

The door opened and he was shoved inside. As expected, Prima was waiting for him. A few feet to the left of her was an unrecognizable pile of soft torn tissue and ripped flesh and organs, all soaking in one massive pool of blood.

 _Christ, it's them, she's - !  
_

The rest of the supply crew – or what remained of them.

" _No!"_

"This is the last one?" Prima asked.

"Affirmative, Commander."

"Restrain him, then," Prima said, gesturing ever so slightly to the wall across from her. Iron cuffs had been hammered into recently laid stone, stone that was grey just hours ago but was now stained maroon and brown and scarlet from the blood of the other five.

" _What have you done?!"_ Jeremy shouted, still unable to fight – the most he could do was weakly twitch his numb shoulders against the unyielding grip of the marines as they hauled him over and strapped his wrists and ankles in so that he was spread-eagled on the wall before her. He could feel the blood on the stone soaking through his clothing and into his skin and his stomach churned wildly from the combination of disgust and fear and horror and pure, utter hopelessness.

There's no escape.

This is _it,_ how it's going to end –

He had always envisioned it a little differently, imagining that he would marry one day and have a family of his own, dying surrounded by their loving faces instead of looking up into the empty sockets of the Armada Commander.

"Your fate is in your hands, pirate," Prima said, her voice as cool as if she was reciting lines from a book of scripture, "Reveal the location of the rest of the survivors, and you will meet your end without pain." She was close enough to touch him, only an arm's breadth away.

Jeremy's face twisted into a furious scowl, working up a mouthful of spit and launching it directly into her face.

" _Never, tyrant bitch!"_

Prima wiped her face clean with one long, narrow finger.

"Very well. Strip him."

The marines who had brought him in made short work of his coat and shirt, slicing the fabric from his body like paper and exposing his flesh, which was, for now, untouched.

"Go on."

"At once, Commander," the leftmost marine replied, and as Prima moved back, he stepped forwards to take her place, his dagger clenched in his right fist. Jeremy's heart was thudding in his chest, his blood racing through his veins like fire as he stared at the blade in fear, unable to tear his eyes away from it.

 _What did it feel like,_ he silently asked his shipmates, _did it go quickly?_

He hoped it did. He hoped that he would be able to be as strong as they had been, and die stubbornly, having never once caved.

She had not obtained anything from any of them, and he would be no different.

The marine gripped his shoulder and roughly stabbed the tip of the blade into his chest – not enough to reach his heart, no, but enough to cut through the flesh and muscle, and most _certainly_ enough to cause pain.

Jeremy could not hear his own screams as the blade was dragged down to his solar plexus in a perfect diagonal line, and then down again, straight through the middle of his torso. His flesh sucked at the knife as it was withdrawn, only for the marine to stab him again in his other shoulder, making a diagonal line identical to the first one and connecting it to the longer, vertical line, forming a gruesome, bloody "Y" that spanned the length of his entire upper half.

He was screaming, he was sure – because his throat was _burning_ so horribly – but all he could hear in his ears was the distorted sound of Prima's voice and this horrible, relentless ringing. His legs were warm. They had been drenched in his own blood.

Will you surrender.

He would _never,_ he would _never!_

Carry on.

Fingers probing at the edges, ripping skin, peeling it like the flesh of an orange to expose his ribcage and organs, his body going numb as he tasted copper and realized that it was bubbling up from his throat in a continuous stream.

Amidst this, he looked at the heap of mangled remains, imagining that they were looking back at him, proud of his strength and his refusal to betray.

Will you relent.

 _When hell freezes over._

Carry on.

* * *

"What is to be done with the remains, Commander?"

Prima eyed the bloody pile, now topped with the corpse of her most recent victim. He was equally as defiant as all the rest, despite looking much younger than his accomplices.

"Put them in the courtyard with the rest. And this room is to be cleaned."

"Commander?"

Clockworks had no sense of smell or disgust.

"Although we have eliminated the conscious population of this island, the pests still linger."

Maggots. She meant maggots and flies and gnats and parasites, and anything else that would be drawn to a warm, rotting body that could _also_ get into the numerous documents stored all over the building that she had not yet rifled through. They could not have that.

"It will be done, Commander."

With this matter resolved, Prima left the chamber and returned to her desk, once again taking up the quill and adding another few sentences onto the report that she had nearly finished, adding a few sentences regarding those _particularly_ recently deceased before signing it with a twitch of her wrist and sealing it with wax, the signet of the Armada stamped into the center.

She looked out the window. There were no island patrols now – just the two dragoons at her door and the marines who had brought back the six defiant men, plus their musketeer Captain. The rest of the crew, she assumed, had remained on the ship.

"The ships have all been sent out?" She said, standing up and approaching the Captain.

"Affirmative, Commander. A pathway has been established – but it will only be temporary, if the patrols are to be recalled as quickly as possible."

"Of course," Prima acknowledged, "it is merely necessary for now."

She handed him the letter.

"Seeing as it is convenient, I shall task _your_ crew with delivering this to Cadiz. Take the _utmost_ caution."

"Rest assured, Commander, it will be done."

They departed within the next half-hour.

* * *

 **I hope you enjoyed, and be sure to leave a review!**

 **\- Severina**


	35. Chapter 35

**Chapter 35: Making Contact with Cadiz**

Bracing against the enormous blast of wind that was produced from the stormgate, the Captain of Prima's deemed messenger ship steadily guided the frigate into the stormy Valencian skies. They had not been here since Prima had launched her attack fleet, and to their immediate impressions, nothing had changed.

The patrol ships were still making their routines in the skyway, the grating sounds of the massive gears inside the fortresses at either end echoing and ricocheting off of the numerous metal structures that made up the majority of the world by now.

All was well – such a contrast from the unstable, unsure, shaky control that the Supreme Commander held over all of Skull Island.

The outer gates of the fortress opened as they approached, and the ship easily passed through.

In his right coat pocket, the Captain carried the report from the Supreme Commander. He was to give it directly to Queen, and to no one else, as per his orders.

The docking procedure went smoothly. Below on the docks, a squad of four clockworks – two marines and two musketeers – waited to receive the Captain and the soldiers of the crew.

"Reporting from the Skull Island colony."

The Captain retrieved the letter and held it forwards, allowing them to see Prima's seal stamped into the wax that held the letter shut.

"Understood."

In unison, the four clockworks on the dock turned and steadily paced away, the soldiers of the messenger ship falling into formation behind them.

They had not _seen_ the intricate details of the Commander's report, but the Captain himself was almost certain of what it contained – the finding of the men, their torture, their defiance, their death – as well as the extinction of the survivors that had managed to remain on the island.

And then there was Sydney Underhill.

This particular clockwork crew had been ashore when the attack had occurred – Prima had insisted on pulling back as many troops as could be afforded – but they had certainly known of what had happened to the ship that she had come across.

Destroyed, demolished, the soldiers torn apart.

Their cannons unable to fire as the _Fife_ rammed into the side of the Valencian warship, the terminated frames of the soldiers joining the many dozens of corpses that she had accumulated on the deck of her ship.

They approached the enormous doors that led to the throne room and slowed to a halt, the marine at the very front – the one who had received them – exchanging a few short words with the guard at the door before stepping back to make room for the doors to swing open.

"Your Majesty."

In unison, the soldiers brought their fists across their chest, pressing over where their hearts _would_ have been if they had been human.

Atop of Kane's – and now _Prima's –_ throne, Queen acknowledged them with a nod.

"At ease. Why have you come?"

The Captain of the messenger ship stepped forwards.

"A report, your Majesty – from the Supreme Commander."

" _Commodore Prima?"_

Queen's voice was no more than a whisper as she beckoned him to her, the use of Prima's former title more out of former habit than anything else. She had made her name as the _Commodore,_ the last of the three and the most knowledgeable of them all –

Only to have her former Lord's burden placed upon her own shoulders.

Yes, she was _more_ than capable of commanding it, Queen would admit – but she was not built for that. She was built for battle, for strategy and for combat – it was her habitat.

The Captain stopped a few feet away from Queen, holding the envelope out to her. She pinched it between two delicate fingers and pulled it away from him.

"Dismissed."

The Captain backed away, joining the rest of the soldiers, who were quick but graceful in their exit.

This was intended for her eyes only.

Queen traced her fingers over the wax seal on the back of the letter. Sure enough, there it was – the signet of the Supreme Commander.

She remembered when it had once belonged to the clockwork that Gazpacho had almost mockingly called her _husband._ That could not have been further from the truth – love and marriage were mortal constructs entirely. They were simply two separate parts in the intricate system of the grand design.

Sliding her finger under the edge of the paper, Queen carefully broke the seal, unfolding the paper and holding it at arm's length, scanning over it with remarkable speed and accuracy.

 _Queen,_

 _I do regret to report that the control the Armada holds over the pirate haven is weak and unstable._

Less than optimistic.

Queen kept reading.

 _We have executed any survivors that remained on the island after the attack._

Good.

 _However, it has been confirmed that a number of them have managed to flee, among them Hunter Chamberlain and the witchdoctor known as "Madame Vadima."_

Queen remembered Hunter – he had appeared before in a report by an abducted soldier, and later on, he had been Prima's captor as well. That was, before she had engineered her own escape and returned to Valencia, coming close to termination in the process.

There was not a day that went by that Queen did not think of what would have happened to the clockwork forces if she had been indeed terminated and not just immobilized in the snow.

They would fall, it was undeniable – and they would have their former Supreme Commander to thank for _that._

Queen could not speak up against his words – no clockwork could, at least not directly – but she had seen the holes in his plan, the flaws in his orders that Prima had as well. Only musketeers, even though it meant that they would not stand a chance in close combat – and especially given that they were the clockworks of the White Cadre, who were made to operate alongside their counterparts.

Had it not been for the odds stacked against her, she would have destroyed the island long ago and returned to Valencia triumphant – and perhaps then, the three pirates and the rogue clockwork that accompanied them would have died within seconds of breaking into the fortress. She would have seen their intents, their patterns – she would have predicted their movements before they were even made and she would strike them dead where they stood.

But that was not the case.

It was times such as these that Queen internally cursed the Lord Kane and his golden mind, also separated from its own counterpart, respectively.

 _Furthermore –_

That couldn't be good.

 _Sydney Underhill is aboard her ship, the Grand Fife, and has destroyed several clockwork ships._

Underhill. The engineer behind Kane's assassination.

 _She appears to be under the influence of some supernatural power._

 _This_ was different. Queen kept reading, now more confused and concerned than anything. The Supernatural was one thing that they could _not_ exercise complete control over – it was why the Armada had outlawed Hoodoo in the first place.

The report then described, in full, vivid detail, exactly _how_ this influence made itself known.

The ship moving on its own, Prima said. Her jaw unhinging like a snake's. The whites of her eyes becoming pitch-black and her pupils blood-red, the numerous rows of teeth that would stretch the entire length of her engorged, skin-splitting jaw.

The blood that covered the deck and dripped over the sides and dried there.

The corpses that she draped over the railings like decorations.

Had this been any other case, Queen would have simply assumed that she was a human female gone mad – dangerously mad. But the ability to control a ship without touching the wheel, the ability to dash forwards at speeds too fast for the vision of a _clockwork_ and rip _anything_ apart with bare, but _clawed_ hands –

This was not human.

Immediately, Queen sent for Bishop.

"My lady," he said upon entry, bending his already-hunched torso down into a deep bow, "how can I be of service?"

"What do you know about Sydney Underhill?"

"The Captain…? Hmm…I recall, most immediately, that she had a crew of only three – one of which was a clockwork."

"I _know_ of that, Bishop – I want to know what became of her _after_ she escaped the fortress."

"She was never found, _your Majesty."_

Is this what Prima had referred to as "mocking," Queen wondered, for she had read the former Commodore's extensive collection of notes on the behavior of the mortals – an enormous reference source that could be used to predict the unpredictable. Such was the advantage of existing long enough to witness and participate in combat against mortal creatures for almost seven decades.

"I ask, _Mage,_ because the Supreme Commander _herself_ has seen her in Skull Island – and additionally, she says in her most recent report that Underhill has _single-handedly_ destroyed several frigates, and the soldiers manning them."

"Single-handedly…?"

" _Affirmative,_ Bishop."

He acted almost _too_ similar to a human sometimes.

"And so she was not with her _crew?"_

Her crew. The buccaneer and swashbuckler and the traitor musketeer that she was nothing without, the crew that was the reason and the cause and the catalyst behind her _success_ at sabotaging the fortress and assassinating the Lord Kane. The buccaneer had struck the blow.

She had heard this story, it seemed, hundreds of times.

The buccaneer delivered one blow to him, with her bare fists, and it had been enough to incapacitate him completely.

He was stabilized, but just barely, and although Bishop would not (or did not dare to) tell her outright, she doubted that he would ever function properly, that he would ever resume Command again, that he had _anywhere_ to go except for a state of termination.

It all made sense, and it also confirmed Prima's words.

"It appears not. The Supreme Commander believes that she is… _supernaturally_ influenced."

Yes, perhaps Bishop _was_ the most knowledgeable clockwork to consult on this topic – he was a Mage, after all, and although his form of magic was not _quite_ the same as the power that the pirates wielded, it was, to a large extent, close enough.

Bishop did not respond.

"Your _orders,_ my lady?"

 _What do you want,_ masked by propriety that was not forced because it was programmed, she knew.

"I want you to go through Deacon's profiles and records – every _single_ one of them – and gather everything and anything that provides background information on Sydney Underhill."

Queen rested her arms on the throne that was not intended for her, wielding responsibility that was also not intended for her with a remarkable amount of skill and ease.

Bishop bowed again.

"It will be done, your Majesty."

* * *

 **I hope you enjoyed, and be sure to leave a review!**

 **\- Severina**


	36. Chapter 36

**Chapter 36: Samantha Comes to Terms**

Within a few months of her awakening, Samantha's strength began to return to her at a most optimistic rate.

Decay had rid her of a significant amount of her muscle mass – Zachary had been able to salvage some of the tissue that was still mostly formed, but as for the portions that had long since rotted, there was nothing to be done.

She was still _extremely_ strong – it had taken five heavy men just to barely hold her down to the deck – but she was much thinner than before.

Her quadriceps were not so big that they stretched against the side seams of her pants, the bone beneath her shoulders was not _as_ hidden. It was not necessarily _bad,_ no, but she only knew how to fight with her strength – gracefulness and agility did not come very easily to her. If she was to prove useful to the cause, to the survivors of Skull Island and to her shipmates –

Samantha had a lot of work to do.

Wrenching the heavy, blunt axe out of the post of wood that had been nailed into the floor of her cabin, Samantha retreated to the back corner and took aim before throwing it again, powerful muscles working to propel the weapon forwards. It wedged itself in the makeshift target with a satisfying _thud._ She stepped forwards and pulled it out again.

It was becoming easier. A few weeks ago she would have been winded by now – doubled over and coughing and exhausted. Her arms had burned after that first session.

But it was easier now.

Tossing the axe aside, Samantha charged at the post and aimed a forceful kick at the center of it, dislodging the entire structure from the bolts that held it to the ground and sending it flying into the back wall. Splinters shot through the air. Samantha coughed, trying to avoid breathing in the fragments and dust and other particles – her new lungs would _not_ appreciate her for _that,_ she was sure.

She wiped the sweat from her forehead and sat down against the wall, a tired, but satisfied expression on her face.

Her strength was returning – she had felt so naked without it, when she had risen again thirty pounds lighter and weaker. Up until now, she had not even been allowed to train with blades. Instead, she was given a few large sledgehammers from the closets of some of the engineers, allowing her to wield a weapon with weight and mass and real density without posing as large of a risk.

Her hatchet had been given back to her this morning. It felt good to have her faithful, familiar weapon in her hands – and yet, she did not entirely rule out the possibility of adding stonecapped sledgehammers to her (somewhat limited) arsenal.

And regardless, this only served to strengthen her good spirits –

Things were looking up now.

Her strength was returning. She was smiling again, at least a little.

And they were going to bring Jewel back.

They had _promised_ her, in fact, the day that she had risen again – they had promised her in front of their leader, Benjamin Spinnaker, that they would _fix_ everything, that they would reverse all of the pain, the bloodshed –

 _Can that really be fixed?_

Of course it can. Anything can be fixed. Anything can be fixed. Anything –

Samantha hoisted herself to her feet, stretching herself out as she stepped into the narrow hallway, turning right and heading in the general direction of the series of cabins that were, more or less, occupied by Zachary. Half of them were empty, but no one could really be _blamed_ for wanting to keep a fair distance away from two fairly decayed corpses.

We're going to bring her back.

Jewel's going to be back.

The first thing I'll do, Samantha thought, when she's back is apologize to her.

I'm going to hug her and tell her that I'm sorry.

Samantha turned the corner – _there_ they were, the four last doors at the end of the hallway, and she continued on, turning sideways so that she would not bump her shoulders against the doorframes.

I'm going to tell her that I'm sorry for not being able to get to her, for not stopping her and holding on to her and telling her that Sydney's gone and past help, for not seeing it all _earlier –_

Samantha bit her lip and held back tears. She angrily shook her head – this was not a time to be _sad,_ she told herself, for soon, Jewel would be back.

Taking a few deep breaths to compose herself, Samantha quietly opened the door to Zachary's main cabin and stepped across the threshold, taking in the furnishings and occupants of the tiny, cramped room –

Only to instantly realize that she had made a _huge_ mistake.

Jewel was on the table, the bloodstained, _soaked_ table. Her eyelids appeared to be fastened shut. Her ribs protruded from torn flesh. The witchdoctor was bent, hunched over her, his form shadowed as he worked quickly and quietly, like a thief in the night, like a vampire, like a twisted, mad –

" _Aaaaaaiiiiieeeeee!"_

Zachary jumped, whipping around. Samantha was colorless, pressed into the corner between the doorframe and the wall, her strong legs – each as thick as tree trunks – quaking under her as she stared at the corpse with wide blue eyes.

"That…that's…!"

Zachary's hands, hair, torso, and face were all but completely drenched in Jewel's coagulated blood. There was an enormous scalpel in his hand and segments of intestines that were far beyond repair off to the side – he was just shortening her digestive tract, but Samantha did not perceive this as _scientifically_ as he had.

"I'm – "

"What are you _doing to her?!"_

"I'm _fixing_ her," Zachary said, trying to wipe his hands off on his clothing, only just now comprehending that the copious amounts of blood might have contributed a _little_ bit to her panic. But it was too late for reparations.

Samantha was terrified. She shook her head, tugging at her hair, subconsciously scratching at the reddened, stretched, bald patch of skin where Quintus' charge had been fired into her skull.

"No…no, oh, no, _no!_ You're taking her…you're taking her _apart!"_

"I'm putting her back _together!"_ Zachary insisted, and at once, he decided that she had to see to believe. "Look, see here – " And he stepped aside, revealing the mostly mended but still vivisected corpse, brushing the remnants of maggots off of the peeling flesh.

Samantha most definitely did not _see here._ Instead, she uttered a great series of incomprehensible screeches and fled from his cabin in terror and horror and sadness.

It was just like the day that she had woken up – Samantha was not fully conscious or in control of her own actions as she tore through the narrow hallway of the ship, bruising her shoulders and arms against the doorframes that didn't quite _cooperate_ with her rather large build, ignoring the cries of concern from the working engineers who were just past said doorframes.

She ran to Andrew's cabin, the room littered with gears and mechanical parts and metal tools – it was the only one she knew – before shutting herself in, curling up in a corner and sobbing. Her chest heaved and she hugged her knees to her chest, her voice hoarse from screaming.

 _Open and exposed._

 _Maggots._

They had picked up the mangled remains of Sydney's victim –

This is _your_ fault.

Quintus had said it, and she knew it – perhaps she had known it all along. That would have been even worse, as all she had to do was to reach out –

If only she had saved Sydney before her Captain slipped into the cracks forever, she thought, even though it was simply _factual_ that Sydney was beyond saving, that both herself and Jewel held no blame in Sydney's or their own downfalls.

The knees of her pants were soaked through with her tears. Samantha sniffled, completely exhausted from crying. There was a knock on the door.

"Hello?"

It was Andrew – she did not know how long he had been there, how much he had heard, or how much he knew – but he understood her the most, out of the three of them who seemed to be in control of this entire mission. He would be a welcome presence.

After all, she had quite literally locked him out of his own cabin.

Hastily getting to her feet, Samantha opened the door, a sheepish expression on her tearstained face.

"Sorry."

"There's no need," Andrew assured. He didn't say anything else. She had a million questions and he knew it – let them come, he silently told her, I'll answer everything, I'll tell you everything, every little detail about this twisted and horrible and unnatural situation.

He closed the door of his cabin behind him and they were both alone in the room.

"I know it's hard. I've never lost a friend that close."

It was the only time someone hadn't immediately tried to slap a metaphorical bandage over Samantha's gaping emotional wounds and this comforted her – this acknowledgement that her pain was legitimate, and not just another burdensome, tiring problem in the way of their final objective.

She appreciated him for that.

"It is. And I hope it's a feeling you never know."

They sat in silence for a few moments. Anderw cleared off one of the tables, or at least attempted to – organizing piles of gears with no current function or correlation here and there, placing tools into corners – something to keep himself busy, and her eyes occupied until she gathered the courage and the calmness necessary to speak.

"I thought he was going to fix her."

Andrew turned, stopping the words _but he was_ from leaving his tongue just in time. Yes, he knew, Zachary was fixing her – he was saving the parts of her mortal body that he could, and separating the parts that he could not – but to any other outside perspective, it just looked like another gruesome scenario.

Perhaps it looked a little too similar to Jewel's death – which had happened right before her eyes.

"He is – his… _methods_ are just…odd."

She blinked.

"I'll explain everything," he said, and pulled out two chairs for the both of them. She bounced her knee, clenching and unclenching her fists where they rested in her lap. Keeping busy, always busy.

Yet, she was very attentive – she listened to him like a student would a professor as he explained the nature and usage of Zachary's strange form of magic. It wasn't like the privateers. It wasn't hoodoo. He closed wounds, he healed injuries, he restored energy at the cost of his own – he had made contact with her soul in the place after death.

Samantha remembered him touching her hand and then she had sat up.

It was more complicated than healing, it was _much_ more complex – Zachary himself, Andrew said, could not even explain it – for it came very naturally and easily to him, and ever since he had gained control over its usage, he had never again questioned its sources, its causes, or its capabilities.

Samantha seemed to accept this and Andrew was relieved. If she had asked _any_ more questions, he thought to himself, then he would simply be at a complete loss as to how to answer. The human nature was to question, and although this was what had made _Homo sapiens_ so advanced, it was also what made them so particularly _obnoxious._

The long-dried tear tracks were still visible on her face, under her eyes, dotting her cheeks, but they were barely there. Andrew was relieved.

He'd gotten better at dealing with these sorts of matters, he thought, and it was less of a burden now.

"I think I'd better go back." Samantha sniffled, standing again – she looked shaken, but more stable than before, and certainly much more _calm_ as well. Immediately, Andrew approached her, standing in front of the door.

"I don't know if…if that's a good idea…"

Given how she had reacted last time –

"That was because I didn't _understand._ But I want to tell him that I'm willing to at least _try_."

"How philosophical of you," Andrew remarked, stepping aside and holding the door open for her as they walked back down to Zachary's unofficially claimed section of the ship. He remained no less than two paces behind her the entire time.

It was her decision to face this – the revival of the gruesome, mortifying death of her best friend and the even scarier circumstances that surrounded it.

Samantha knocked on the door. Inside, Andrew could hear Zachary shuffling around, grabbing some old piece of sailcloth, probably to try and wipe the blood off of himself, situating the body, the numerous vials to hide the most gruesome aspects of his project as much as he possibly could.

He opened the door, only just enough for Samantha to see him, his own form blocking her from looking any further into the room.

"Samantha? Are you all right?"

So he _wasn't_ angry. She almost sighed in relief – although he was odd, she still wanted to foster a friendship with him just like she had with Andrew. She bit her lip and nodded.

"I…I'm sorry…I didn't know how else to react, it…I just…"

"I understand." Zachary asked no more questions. "I should have warned you ahead of time – and _I'm_ sorry."

"No, don't be - !" Samantha quickly interjected, waving her hands in front of her – the last thing she wanted him to do was to assume the responsibility. He was faultless here, yes, just trying to do his job, just trying to put his talent to use, just trying to help others, to repair what he could of the damage that had been done. "I think it's interesting, actually…the way you're putting her together again…"

Zachary looked down, blinking quickly, almost awkwardly.

"Oh – you mean…you mean my magic?"

"Yeah – Andrew told me about it. I've never heard anything like it before." She was less afraid than before, less terrified – the sight of Jewel's corpse still sent daggers of fear through her, but she managed to swallow that down and appear at least somewhat interested.

Zachary seemed almost delighted that she had taken an interest – she doubted that most people did. Behind her, Andrew watched quietly. It seemed to be going well. Samantha was no longer in hysterics, and the tension that had been between the two of them had somewhat dissipated.

Samantha asked questions – lots of questions that Zachary was more than eager to answer, relieved that someone did not immediately look at his unexplained abilities with a skeptical, critical eye, and he attempted to explain to the best of his ability how _he_ did not even know where it came from or what it was, but he sure knew some of the things that it allowed him to _do –_

"And you'll be able to…bring _her_ back, just like you did to me…?"

Her voice was too hopeful. Yes, it is possible, Zachary wanted to say, but it will take time. It will take lots of time, I have to reconstruct her intestines and design an entirely new digestive system, I have to reverse the decay and the damage and the torn flesh first. But there was that small spark of brightness in her eyes that he did not _dare_ to extinguish.

"Yeah, just like – just like what I did for you."

He looked down at this hands awkwardly, remembering how terrified and furious Samantha had been and how much more Jewel was likely to be. He had thought about this before, it had always been an idea – he did not know _why_ he was so nervous right now.

"Samantha?"

"Yeah?"

"Was it painful when you woke up?" It was the least he could do to _try_ and understand what his unwilling experimental subjects had gone and would go through.

Samantha shook her head.

"I think I was just afraid, mainly. I didn't know where I was or who you were. I remembered getting shot, and that was it – I never would have thought that there'd be anything _after_ that."

"You know Jewel's going to be afraid too – when she wakes up again, I mean," Zachary stuttered, tripping over his own words and sentences – he had just started to form what _seemed_ like a friendship between himself and Samantha, and didn't want to risk dashing it onto the ground just yet, "So I thought it would be a good idea…you know, if you were there? So that at least she sees a familiar face."

Samantha thought it over. His idea was certainly credible. She remembered ripping doors off of their hinges when she woke up, nearly beating Zachary himself to death.

"I'll do it – it'll help, I think."

Zachary sighed in relief.

* * *

 **I hope you enjoyed, and do be sure to leave a review!**

 **\- Severina**


	37. Chapter 37

**Chapter 37: What's Lost to History**

A quill pinched in between her delicate, thin fingers, Queen pressed it to the sheet of parchment on the desk before her, every one of her movements precise and controlled as she wrote out the details of what had just transpired over the past few days. The report, naturally, was addressed to the Supreme Commander, in reply to the one that she had sent.

The one she had sent expressing the _dire_ need of a solution.

Queen was unsure as to whether sending reinforcements as of now was the correct decision – she was a specialized clockwork, built to analyze reactions to an authoritarian rule as Kane had been. Rooke would be more knowledgeable in other such matters.

She could not send any forces, not now – but at least the delivery of this report would assure Prima that they were aware of the situation, that they had not abandoned her on that wretched spit of land yet again.

The time in between when she had first received Prima's report and the current moment had been entirely spent on research – Deacon's criminal records of the more well-known pirates of Skull Island, accounts from soldiers who had witnessed the ambush on the Lord Kane – even Prima's own reports, her stacks and stacks of notes on human behavior and reactions.

The formula that could predict the unpredictable.

I can report, Commander, she started off, that Cadiz has dedicated its full effort to clarifying the current situation in Skull Island as much as possible.

The criminal files of Underhill and her crew had only told her so much.

Who was she –

Where did she come from –

And _why_ would she do it?

Deacon had those answers, too.

"Follow me, Excellency," he had said, his hand accompanying in a beckoning motion as he led Queen down to the back corner of the records room and opened another small, cramped door – this one leading to a narrow, but endlessly long hallway of shelves and scrolls and old bound books.

She did not question his methods of organization, even though Queen herself could not make head nor tail of _how_ he had done so. Instead, she just followed, stopping when he stopped and holding out a hand to accept the bound pile of papers offered to her.

They exited the hallway and returned to the main chamber of the records room. Queen laid the bound papers out on the central table and opened it – a cloud of dust flew into the air. This had obviously not been touched for a long time.

"What is this?" Any remnants of a title or label had been faded or worn away long ago.

"Her background, Excellency."

The first page was a sketch of an intricate coat of arms, lions and serpents – together! – posed just so.

Queen turned the pages. The dates were archaic, far before the the first of the clockworks had ever been assembled, before Gazpaccio had been _born,_ even –

But her lineage, _Sydney Underhill's_ lineage, stretched back further, dwarfing their existences. From the moment that the territories of Marleybone had been established, they had seized power over the Isle of Fetch, and thus the first _Lord Underhill_ was named so.

Queen continued to read.

Pages upon pages of families, descendants, at one point, an enormous family tree with text that was far too small and intricate to read precisely without the aid of magnification, even for a clockwork.

"They're _this_ buried in Marleybone's history?"

"It certainly appears so," Deacon replied, coolly as ever. "They've commanded great influence for centuries."

He paused.

"Which is, if you remember, the exact reason that we set out to _eliminate_ them when Valencian forces first invaded Marleybone."

"But Sydney still lives?"

"Yes, Sydney _lived_ through the attack – I do not believe, judging from the Supreme Commander's description of her, that she is still living _now._ Her mother and father were terminated. The manor was destroyed."

"And she was not there?"

"No. It is most likely that she had already escaped to Skull Island by that point."

Queen turned back to the table, pulling the sheet of parchment that was Sydney's criminal profile down on top of the history of her own family.

"She must have been…no more than _twelve_ years old…"

"Hence why we had not thought that her _disappearance_ from her family's manor would become such a dire _crisis."_

Yes, that disappearance had ultimately led to the growth and development of one of the most ingenious and dangerous privateers of the resistance, and the _incapacitation_ of the first Supreme Commander.

"There is also _this."_

Deacon reached out, dropping a small leaflet of about eight pages overtop of everything that was already piled on the table.

 _Skull Island Privateers_

It had been either torn or saved from one of Prima's many records – she had been closer to them, on average, than any other soldier of the Armada. Queen turned the pages. These weren't nearly as dusty as the previous ones – probably because it was referenced so much when creating and analyzing the profiles of known rebellion leaders.

If Sydney had been classified as one, this was bound to give her more information on what her motivations might have been.

Strategical geniuses, one paragraph said, and that was probably true. She had launched an assault, and a _successful_ one at that, with the aid of only two people and a singular clockwork. There was also the looming, unanswered question of _how_ she had swayed the loyalty of Custos Quintus, but they had not come any closer to figuring it out since the very day of the attack.

They had so _little_ information about the humans – how they worked, how they thought, things only Prima knew, and for the past three years she had spent almost all of her time either positioned on or imprisoned in the pirate haven.

It was as if Deacon could tell what she was thinking – he had been programmed to directly follow the thought process of a being, after all.

"Excellency, we have no answer in regards to the clockwork. Bishop had planned to use Presidos Decimus, the variant, as an experimental subject in his attempts to uncover it – but as you likely know, he escaped during the attack."

Decimus was Prima's clockwork – she had not _made_ him, of course, but she had protected him and argued for him when none other would, when Kane himself had directly opposed her. And she had _won._ Prima was the one clockwork that Kane would consult and _truly_ consider, and when she had vanished on the island Queen had found herself constantly thinking that operations would be so much _easier_ if they had their Commodore back.

"We have, however, recovered some traces of background material on her crewmates."

"Oh?"

"Samantha Hawkins trained on the docks in her youth – as an apprentice, most likely."

That explained a lot, Queen thought – it wasn't exactly _easy_ to shake the structure of a Valencian clockwork to the point of paralysis, much less that of the former Supreme Commander. If she had pulled in ships from her teenage years, it was no wonder that she possessed the strength of fifty, even a hundred men.

"And the other?"

"Jewel Zabra? I do not believe that is her true name – she is from Mooshu, and was the daughter of the imperial apothecary – both husband and wife. They were terminated years ago."

"After she had joined Underhill?"

"I believe so. But it is not certain."

Queen lapsed into silence, mulling over the influx of information that had just been shoved at her all at once.

"And their motives, Deacon? Has there been any progress made on that?"

"I fear not, Excellency. With humans, their motives are not always shared."

. . . . . . . . . . . .

Queen signed the letter with a graceful, but controlled flourish. It was almost underwhelming, the results of her extensive digging – they had found every piece of information possible regarding Underhill and her crew, and still, they were clueless as to what _caused_ her to engineer such a plan, or how she had seized the allegiance of a clockwork soldier.

Folding the paper over itself into thirds, Queen took the stick of partially molten wax and let a small pool of it fall over the edges before stamping her insignia into the middle of it.

There should have been more that she could do.

But she had not been given the permission, nor the cause (Prima's letter had been somewhat vague in its description of Underhill's _abnormal_ state) to send reinforcements – thus, this was the most that she could do, assure the Supreme Commander that the fortress was aware of the situation in Skull Island.

Queen left her chambers, the letter clutched in her hand, and turned to the Captain of the messenger ship who had delivered Prima's report. He had waited for the duration of time that it had taken her to write her response. She held it out to him, and he relieved her of it.

"Captain – is your ship ready?"

"Affirmative, Excellency. We are prepared to set sail at your notice."

"Excellent – then, as soon as possible, deliver this back to the Supreme Commander. And take caution as you sail – I need not explain _why."_

 _There are strange things in the sky. Sydney Underhill, who has destroyed a ship –_

 _Who has ripped apart hundreds of her own kind –_

 _Her jaw unhinging, rows of TEETH - !_

Use caution.

"At once." The Captain saluted, turned, and marched away. Queen followed at her own discretion – it would do to see them out, she would at least watch until they had passed through the stormgate to Hammamitsu.

Thus, she stood on a higher floor as preparations were made to set sail – the gears checked, the anchor raised, the gangplanks brought away. With a mighty groan, the Armada ship drifted out of the docks of the fortress, past the gates, and into the Skyway. From the wide window that stretched laterally across the room, Queen could see them pass into the windlane, nearing the stormgate. All was going well.

And then the stormgate had emitted a loud blast of sound, as if trying to eject some great disturbance and Queen turned –

Only to see a battered, enormous black galleon emerge from the whirling winds, the crossed sword and hatchet still evident on its tattered, ragged sails.

"It's the _Fife!"_

What Prima had seen, and witnessed, and _warned_ them about –

It was this. It was this ship and its Captain. Spinning on her heel, Queen turned to face the pair of guards at the door just as an entire squadron of marines marched in, one of them forcibly pulling her away from the window and into the middle of the formation.

"Excellency, it is not safe to remain so close to the exterior. A dangerous enemy ship has been spotted in the skyways – "

"Yes, I _know –_ the messenger ship just set sail, they should be warned!"

"Your majesty – "

"Where is the General?!"

"They are too far gone to be reached in time, majesty. Not without sacrificing more of our own."

Queen froze. For a clockwork to make a statement like that, the outcome must have been _certain._

" _Let me through."_

The marines, having been given a direct order by their appointed and acting regent, did not resist as Queen shoved past them, pressing her palms against the window. The _Grand Fife_ had now caught up to the messenger ship. The blasts of the messenger ship's cannons could be heard as they attempted to fire, to ward her off, but they did not seem to have any affect on the ship's speed whatsoever –

And without any further effort on the _Fife_ or her Captain's part, the Valencian vessel was abruptly yanked back to come alongside of the enormous corpse-littered galleon, drawn to it like a magnet.

 _The Fife destroyed our patrol ship without any struggle._

There, yes, she could see Sydney now – she could see the Captain, her focused and precise optical mechanisms allowing her to see every rip and tear in Underhill's long coat, every tangle in her hair, and the sunken, purpled areas around her wide eyes as she leapt from the helm and approached the edge of her ship.

All at once, the clockworks of the messenger ship charged directly at her, wielding halberds and firing charges, and yet the cuts dealt to her yielded no blood, and the charges that smacked into her torso did not even so much as _sway_ her.

Sydney laughed, a terrible, dissonant sound that Queen could hear as clear as day, even through the thick walls of the fortress and over the distance that separated them.

And then, just as the Supreme Commander had described in her report, Sydney's jaw unhinged, the skin upon her face splitting as her eyes faded into black, as claws – talons, even – sprouted from her fingertips and rows upon _rows_ of sharp, shark like teeth came into view.

She fell upon them, the clockworks of the messenger ship, and they did not stand a _chance_ as she crushed their masks in her hands, as she tore apart their processors and what remained of their terminated frames with those sharp, serrated teeth. Another several brocaded uniforms joined the rotting figures on her deck.

Queen was frozen in place, hardly able to process what happened.

As she watched, the letter that she had handed to the Captain fluttered away from his frame, over the railing of the ship, and down into the depths of the Spiral, carried by the rushing wind. Sydney's mouth closed, the fluid that ran through the clockworks' bloodpaths staining her lips and throat and chest and cheeks. She licked the rest of it off of her fingers, and although she was nowhere near the helm, the _Fife_ began to move, sailing away and disappearing back into the stormgate that she had come out of.

It was all true. Everything that Prima had said, the danger that she spoke of – it had now been seen firsthand.

Queen faced the soldiers that had now rushed into the room, every one of them dead silent.

"Prepare reinforcements for the island – _NOW!"_

* * *

 **I hope you enjoyed, and do be sure to leave a review!**

 **\- Severina**


	38. Chapter 38

**Chapter 38: Questionable Intentions**

Things could not have looked any more bleak.

The sail had been assembled, the systems worked – but the mast was too weak. The _Sapfir_ did not have nearly enough materials on hand to reinforce it adequately, and so they drifted, day after day, gathering up what wreckages they could.

It was a dreadful business. The men were sent in teams of three aboard the remains of ships that had long since been destroyed, the structures unstable and threatening to cave at any moment. It was a sacrifice, a risk that the crew was willing to take for one another.

Decimus was never among them – in the event that one of the wreckages _did_ collapse (none of them had yet, thank goodness), they could not afford to lose their chief architect. It was for the good of them all, but the overall spite towards him was still the same, if not greater than before.

Although this was by far better than being taunted by those _hallucinations_ day and night with none believing his words when he spoke of them, the fear that they would simply _dispose_ of him once they had left the abyss was still present.

What if they give me back to her?

She was dead – he had _seen_ her die – but he would not put anything past her.

What if they are rid of me, the first opportunity that passes.

What if they turn on me.

Were they ever with me to begin with.

Even now, Decimus was unused to having so _many_ questions that simply had no answer. Not even chances could be calculated.

He was below the decks under the pretenses of evaluating their stored weapons – but it was a ruse to allow him to escape. He was vulnerable while he was thinking. If the possibility for them to turn on him existed, precaution was vital. For about three hours now, Decimus had stood in front of the same group of racks, doing anything _but_ what he said he was.

The thick, long Polarian uniform jacket was heavy on his thin frame, but it fit him and served its purpose nevertheless (keeping the wearer from freezing to death) – he drew it tighter around his shoulders and sank further into thought.

It was not just the crewmembers' spite that was concerning – it was the aggressive, barely-contained anger that seemed to pass between them, between those who called themselves comrades and brothers. Their survival depended on their cooperation, with him and with each other. If they could not even come together amongst themselves –

Decimus would not think on that any longer. He would not let himself. They were too analytical – too survival based, for humans, to let pride and frustration get in their way.

Finally stepping away from the weapon racks for the first time in hours, Decimus climbed up the ladder and out of the storage hold, now still below decks but in the narrow hallway system that he was so familiar with.

It was still down here, the crew was all on deck –

That was, save for two hushed, but urgent voices.

Decimus could not quite make out what they were saying, not from where he was now, and so he moved closer. They were switching in and out of their native tongue, their voices harsh and angry.

" _Pyotr!_ Now is not the time!"

"Now is the _perfect_ time! For too long, we've let ourselves be _manipulated!"_

Decimus froze. Manipulated by what?

His first thoughts were of Dangler, the invisible puppetmaster of the fates that no one could see, and yet, she toyed with them like they were little more than her playthings. Illusions, false hopes and victories – the tools of her trade.

"He's the only way we'll make it out of here!"

"We're not _reliant_ on him anymore, Vladimir. You heard him, he said it himself – all we need to do is reinforce the mast!"

"And if it fails again, after we try it?! If there is still another hidden problem, waiting to be revealed?! What then – will you let your hatred _blind_ you?!"

They were talking about him. One of them was defending him, the other was making his loathing clear. Decimus recognized the second rasping voice as that of the soldier who had been seconds away from terminating him.

Pyotr. He now could put a name to his face.

Suddenly aware of his own being and presence more so than usual, Decimus pressed himself to the wall, a single turn around the corner being the only thing needed to expose either party. This was not optimal, no, far from it, this hatred of him and his kind – but it was nothing that he had not predicted earlier on.

"You act as if my hatred is unfounded."

"It most certainly is!"

"How can you say that _genocide –_ that the murders and crimes committed by _his kind_ is not a good enough reason?!"

When the Armada had intervened in the Polarian war, they had stopped at nothing to achieve their objective – and they had spared no one.

And yet, he had learned to coexist with them, even though it had been a Polarian that stabbed him. Decimus traced his fingers over the outline of the wound, which was almost fully healed by now. He wondered why they couldn't do the same – why they couldn't put aside what had occurred in the past, why they couldn't differentiate their emotions and their logic.

Because, he answered himself, they are mortal beings and emotion is woven into them. It is how they operate. And the clockworks, as everyone knew, were all programmed with a common objective. In the end, no matter what, they would want all mortal beings dead.

Pyotr was right – his views were founded, and strongly so – but this would hinder their progress, and as of now, Decimus would have to find a way to either work around it or work with it.

"I don't know, Vladimir – sometimes…sometimes I wonder."

"About what?"

"You, of course – whether your loyalty still truly lies with your _own kind."_

Vladimir shouted wordlessly in indignation.

"How _dare –_ "

"And yet you _bring_ one of them aboard our ship out of _sympathy!_ You carried him on here like a wounded soldier – "

"That's what he _was!"_

"He's a PUPPET!"

There was a hand on Decimus' shoulder and he nearly shouted, which would have blown everyone's cover – but this was stopped by a powerful hand closing over his mouth, muffling any sound. He looked up. It was the Captain, his eyes calm but deliberate. He released Decimus slowly, indicating for him to be silent as he leaned against the wall beside him, listening just as attentively.

"Just because _you_ can't seem to look past history for the sake of our _survival_ doesn't – "

"So I should take a page out of your book, yes?! I should follow your lead? Since when, Vladimir, were you above _any_ of us?"

Next to Decimus, the Captain tensed. Decimus wondered why he didn't do something. It was perfectly within his power to stop this now, to order them both into silence and back to work.

But as Decimus watched him – his eyes, his hands, his expression – he understood. By exercising authority only to quiet them, it would not solve anything – the source of the problem, of their disagreement, would still remain. He was trying to understand the situation first, to get an idea of what was running through the minds of his crew before deciding how to best address it.

"I think that you should stop threatening to hinder the process!"

"So you mean I should _sleep with the enemy,_ just as _you_ did?!"

Decimus went rigid, trying to process the full meaning of what had just been said.

Vladimir cursed in his native tongue and roughly clocked Pyotr upside the jaw with a loud _thwack,_ and Decimus heard the other man grunt as he stumbled back, spitting blood.

"You _bastard,_ how _dare_ you accuse me of - !"

" _EXPLAIN THIS, NOW!"_

In the short time that Decimus had been so stuck in thought, the Captain had stormed around the corner, now standing directly in front of the two quarrelling scavengers. Neither of them said anything – there was nothing to explain. "I will not tolerate such _pathetic_ bickering on my ship!"

Decimus could see just enough of the scene from his hidden position to know what was going on. The Captain gave them each a ferocious glare that let them know that he had heard everything.

" _You!_ Can you not follow the example that the _rest_ of the shipmates are setting?! Why, even _I_ am following the clockwork's plan – unless you have a _better_ one, I suggest that you _silence yourself!"_

He was talking to Pyotr, obviously.

"And as for you – it is beneath you to waste effort and blood on such a _trivial_ disagreement!"

"Understood, sir," Vladimir replied, calmly and coolly. He knew that the Captain held no true quarrel with his words, but only with his most recent actions – in general, fighting amongst teams was never beneficial.

"Up with the both of you – back to work."

"Sir," they both acknowledged, and started from the small corner that they had chosen to occupy. Decimus quickly slipped away and back into the storage hold before he could be seen, waiting until they both had passed before reemerging. The Captain was standing by the top of the ladder, waiting.

"I have dealt with it," he said curtly, "it is my hope that this problem will not continue to be prevalent in the future."

Decimus nodded, almost numbly, his processor still sitting stuck on Pyotr's words and accusations – and of his perception of Vladimir's motives for saving him, helping him, protecting him.

The guarded, hyper-alert part of his processor suggested that this was just like Bishop – that when it came down to it, he would be another observation, another test subject, because it is better to know one's enemy.

But there was nothing to confirm that. It would be dangerous to make a baseless conclusion.

"Understood. What is the status of operations?"

"Very slow so far," the Captain replied, and said nothing more. Decimus had already known. They had come across very few wreckages over the past few twenty-four hour periods, but material was material – and the sooner they were able to reconstruct the mast, the better.

With a short nod, the Captain left him, and Decimus was again alone, a thousand unworked thoughts and scenarios spinning before him.

Again, he touched the wound at his side.

"Why did he…?"

Decimus had wanted to be terminated, he had wanted his function to cease. He had felt safe with the blade in his torso, with his blood pouring out onto the snow beneath him, because wherever he was going and _wherever this would take him,_ she would not be able to reach him.

Or so he thought.

Retreating back into the storage hold, where there were none that could potentially turn on him and stab another blade into his back when he wasn't looking, Decimus pondered this.

He had seen her die.

Humans could not live with all of their bones exposed, once their flesh and tissue and organs had turned to dust. It was impossible – they needed all components to live, every single one of them was important and vital. She had to be dead.

She had to –

 _Then why is she here?_

Decimus thought back to the wreckage of the Marleybonian ship that they had come across weeks and weeks ago, only for the crew to morph into multiplications of _her._ He thought of the undead creatures that had crawled onto the deck accompanied by waves of maggots and that ringing, piercing laugh.

I've got you now, she said, but she didn't. She could no longer contact him through the brand on his throat. The scars that she had carved into his back had healed long ago.

 _Why –_

 _And how is she still here?_

The question still loomed. And as alarming as it was for him to be kept in a constant state of not-knowing, he was not quite sure that he truly wanted to find out.

* * *

 **Just a mild bit of tension. I hope you enjoyed, and do be sure to leave a review!**

 **\- Severina**


	39. Chapter 39

**Chapter 39: The Deserted Manor**

It had been a long time – weeks, maybe even a month – since Prima had sent the messenger ship to deliver her report to Cadiz.

She was alarmed, to say the very least – there was no telling what state the other worlds were in, she had been so cut off completely. If they had gone through Mooshu, then there would have been a chance of getting held up by the forces sent for Marleybone – yes, that was one possibility.

There was also the possibility that they, like the ship they had seen, had been consumed by the _Fife_ as soon as they had disappeared from her range of sight. It was not something that Prima could simply ignore, as much as she truly wanted to.

She could not afford to lose them – to lose _any_ more of her troops.

In that moment, she was more aware than ever of her advantage of being _emotionless,_ a soldier built to serve her function and nothing more.

A human leader would have been worried and panicked, even – but she was still able to think clearly, all while maintaining an appropriate level of _awareness_ of the status of her own soldiers.

Then again, given that there was no direct passage from Skull Island to Valencia – it would take weeks to get there and back, not to mention the time that it would take for Queen to read the report, consult with the other elites, and craft a response.

There's nothing to be concerned about, she concluded, not yet, not while there's no proof.

Hypothetical issues did nothing but cause unnecessary aggression amongst all.

Avery's manor was deserted now, even though she had pulled back all of the ship patrols. It was pointless to endanger her remaining soldiers even further, given that she was unsure of when – or _if –_ the messenger ship would return.

There was also the issue of the _Grand Fife,_ which seemed to emerge and disappear in the blink of an eye. Underhill moved in no particular pattern, and went almost undetected entirely among the few patrols that Prima had dared to maintain until recently.

Every morning, the sentry posted at her door delivered a report of the prior day's happenings - and every day now for the past couple of weeks, it had been the same.

No sign of the _Grand Fife._

No sign of the _Grand Fife._

No sign of the _Grand Fife,_ no additional survivors. Human population of the island remains nonexistent.

She had executed the last of them weeks ago, and they were now in the midst of the slow process of cremating each and every one of their bodies, in order to maintain order and regulate the insects that still thrived in this world.

Nevertheless, she did not exactly take the disappearance of the _Fife_ as a good sign – for all they knew, Underhill was still hiding in the shadows of some island, in the cave carved into the side of one of the landmasses just off of the coast of the island. Until Prima witnessed the destruction of that ship and its Captain, she could not stand easy.

Prima looked out into the skyway, the bright afternoon sun glaring down at her through the windows of the manor, and briefly considered sending out the patrols again, in full force, to catch her once and for all.

No, no. Illogical and risky, the chances of destruction and defeat are still high.

Not to mention that Hunter Chamberlain was still alive – and with the number of corpses that had been burned and destroyed during the initial attack on the island, there was no way to calculate how many survivors were with him or how many supplies they had left. So starving them out was not an option here.

As much as she detested it, Prima concluded, they would simply have to wait.

Drawing the heavy velvet curtains, Prima stepped away from the window and walked right out the front door of the manor, continuing down the staircase and into the surrounding court. The heavy footsteps of the dragoon soldier that had been posted at her door notified her that he had followed.

"Soldier, there is no need."

"It would be unwise for you to proceed alone, Commander."

He was right. She gave up and continued, letting him trail her as she climbed the steep hill, inlaid with flat stones to create a sort of walkway, that led to what remained of the Chamberlain manor.

"The Resistance leader's residence, Commander?"

"Affirmative, soldier, that it is. He may be gone, but who knows…?"

She trailed off there, not to leave a question hanging between them but because she did not know what to say herself.

She did not know, in short, _why_ she was doing this, only that she wanted to and that she would, right _now._

When they came to the enormous double doors at the front, one of them slightly ajar, Prima turned and held up a hand to stop the soldier from following her in.

"Remain here. If I am threatened, you may come and retrieve me."

"Understood, Commander." He saluted her, but she had already disappeared into the enormous, palace-like mansion without so much as a sound.

The first thing Prima noticed was the sheer amount of dust that coated quite literally _everything,_ like a carpet, or a blanket. It drifted through the air, making it difficult for the light to penetrate through and casting a dull grey hue over everything within.

With no real reason to fear for her function or safety, the Supreme Commander explored the house of her captors.

The main room was large, impressive, made for entertaining massive audiences even though she doubted that there had ever been more than five within the entire _house_ at any point in time. The lid of the piano was closed. Prima pushed it open.

Using her sleeve to sweep away the layer of dust that had settled upon the keys and the frame of the instrument, she struck a chord at random, and was surprised to find that the sound was quite harmonized rather than dissonant. Music was considered to be made up of emotions, but she knew it for what it truly was – controlled wave frequencies.

And that was all.

She remembered, walking around the piano, that day when Hunter had strung her up in those enchanted manacles so that Dangler could control her like a puppet on strings. Then they had taken off the blindfold, and Sydney Underhill was sitting in front of her, her eyes wide in shock and fear. She had bolted from the manor, screaming all the meanwhile.

That was the first and the only time that Prima had ever seen her while she was _alive_ and _human._

Judging by the transformation that she could undergo at will, with her rows of sharp teeth and stretched jaw and clawed hands, Underhill was no longer either of the two.

Bookshelves lined the walls, and she could just barely make out the outline of a violin lying flat upon one of them. Dangler's.

There were portraits hanging on the walls too, but they were so faded and aged and covered that it was ambiguous as to _whom_ was being depicted. Probably Hunter's predecessors, Prima guessed, or maybe himself, or perhaps Dangler, when she looked a little healthier.

She continued on, towards the back of the room, and looked through several of the open doors, finding dining rooms and elaborate furniture covered in that same grey carpet. A crystal chandelier dangled over the table, and when Prima touched it, a shower of dust and cobwebs rained down onto the numerous silverware and china plates below.

Something crunched under her foot and Prima jumped away, her hand flying to the hilt of her dagger.

A teacup, she recognized, or at least the shards of it.

There was something intriguing about exploring the deserted home of one so different than herself, Prima found, and she reached over to the tall window on the wall and yanked apart the heavy velvet curtains, only to be forced to bring her hands up as ten or so crows rushed at her, past her, out the door, obviously having been perched on the metalworking of the windowpane.

These rooms said nothing. Prima went upstairs.

The spiral staircase was narrow, and it creaked with every step she took – which was concerning in itself, as her frame was no more than fifty pounds. The topmost floor consisted of three narrow hallways, one that branched off into a glass-encased sitting room, the floor littered with wooden shards, and the other two gave way to even more doors.

Systematically, she went through them – most of them were bedrooms, unoccupied and untouched. The bedclothes were neatly folded, as if the vacant house was still expecting company, and even through the dust layer, Prima could see the intricate stitching on the blankets.

This was luxury, to the humans.

At last, next the shattered window at the very end of the hallway, Prima found the room she had been looking for.

It was in complete ruins.

What had once been the lace-lined canopy of a four-poster bed lay torn and tattered over the floor, mixed in with shards of glass and porcelain, presumably from shattered vases. A cracked, full-length mirror was mounted on the wall, dried blood staining the gaps between the pieces a dark, dull brown.

 _What transpired here?_

Two manacles, inscribed with runes, lay on the floor, held to the floorboards by thick, heavy chains – and this only added to the confusion. Dangler and her lover had clearly lived _here,_ judging by how large this room was compared to the others, and how none of the other rooms had likely been disturbed even once in the last five years.

Carefully, Prima stepped over the chaotic mixture of torn satin and glass, and approached the large oak wardrobe in the corner, finding that it was filled with evening gowns and enormous skirts of all colors and styles, each one more vibrant and extravagant than the next.

Dangler's.

These had once belonged to her – even though, Prima noted, looking at the waistlines of the numerous garments, she had probably not been able to fit them for some time now.

Next to her face, a small portrait about the size of her hand rested in an oval-shaped frame, nailed to the wall, and although it took some time, Prima eventually recognized its subject as none other than Dangler herself, when she was vibrant and healthy and bright-eyed.

This was not the Dangler she remembered.

Her limbs were slender, yet muscular, her cheekbones high and her brow arched, yes, just like her first profile in Cadiz, the one that _Presidos Decimus_ had drawn. Her face was not quite skeletal yet, and every feature of hers was at the most pleasant angle –

What beauty she had lost.

What health, what standing, what virtue.

Even with all her knowledge of humanity's descent into madness, Prima still could not quite comprehend that the beautiful young woman that was surely not a _day_ over twenty-one and the staggering, skeletal, sallow-skinned figure that scratched her nails over the cell doors at night, that called out _Decimus, Decimus, Decimus, how I miss you, why did you leave me._

Prima slammed the doors shut. It alarmed her, her inability to process this, and she carefully removed the portrait from its hanging and placed it face-down on the nearby vanity table, heaped and weighed down with priceless, heavy necklaces and brooches and such.

Enough. That is enough.

And as quick as she came, she went, stalking deliberately out of the room and down the stairs and through the front door of the manor without so much as a single backwards glance. The dragoon quickly stepped back to make way, rigid and steadfast as ever.

"Commander? Is everything all right?"

Prima did not know how to respond. No, it wasn't, but she wasn't in _danger,_ certainly not!

"I do not want to remain here any longer."

She started back towards the fortress without a word further and the dragoon followed, greatsword held across his chest and at the ready. The heavy train of Prima's gold-lined black coat brushed over the stairs as she descended. Still, she did not look back.

She remembered seeing, out of the very edge of her peripheral vision, the stone staircase that led into the blackness, the pit that was the cellar, the dungeon in which she and Servus Albus had been kept, in which Decimus had been tortured for years. Indeed, she had considered exploring that floor too, revisiting the dark, cramped rooms that had once confined her, now as a liberated being.

But Prima would not look back – not now, and not ever. She was the Supreme Commander of the clockwork Armada. There were survivors to hunt and forces to maintain. She could not lose focus now.

* * *

 **I hope you enjoyed, and do be sure to leave a review!**

 **\- Severina**


	40. Chapter 40

**Chapter 40: A Most Painful Memory**

Positioned on either side of the table holding Jewel's corpse, Samantha and Zachary carefully wiped the blood off of her supple-again skin with wet rags, being careful to apply _just_ enough pressure, but not too much – Zachary's work was still not done.

They had cut her tattered silk jacket away from her long ago, leaving her half-demolished corpse bare on the table – but there was hardly anything discernable amongst the bloody, rotten mass.

Now, her eyes were whole and dark green, like Samantha remembered, and her braid had been neatly coiled underneath her head, acting as a pillow of sorts. Her intestines were all but gone. All that remained of her digestive system was a stomach that was a fourth of its original size (he had only been able to salvage that much) and a small length of intestines, maybe about four or five feet, that connected it to the rest.

This would, of course, pose a problem when it came to eating and digesting food – but Zachary would figure it out later. Leave me to it, he had reassured her.

"Does she look…anything similar?"

Zachary made a shrugging motion with his shoulders and hands – there was no way to phrase this that _wasn't_ awkward or uncomfortable.

"More so than _before,_ I guess," Samantha replied nonchalantly, as if he had just asked her how the weather was. She tossed the bloody rag back into the bucket of water on the floor next to the table and carefully used a scrap of old sailcloth – they had a great abundance of those – to pat Jewel's corpse dry.

Her flesh was firm under Samantha's hands, and it almost felt as if she were alive again. With any hope, she would indeed be – and the thought alone brought tears to her eyes.

Zachary noticed.

"What was she like? When she was alive, that is."

Samantha pursed her lips and leaned back against the narrower worktable that her back had been pressed against, almost relieved to have been given an excuse to lose herself in thought and ignore the present state of things. The present state, the _present_ in which Jewel was dead.

"Hm…I guess she could come off as kind of cold, if you didn't know her well. She wasn't very sociable."

"Oh?" Zachary looked up, getting to work on the stitching of Jewel's abdominal region. "Then how did you end up meeting?"

"She saved my life. She was the daughter of two chemists, or something, in Mooshu – and I had some awful sickness. I think I almost died."

"You almost died?!" Zachary froze.

"But that was years ago," Samantha hurriedly said, flapping her arms and trying to reassure him upon seeing him panic, "and I was pretty much delusional the whole time, I only know what _she_ told me."

Zachary gave her a wobbly smile, inwardly berating himself for worrying her. If anything, _she_ should have been the one freaking out, but here she was, as calm as ever could be, sponging the blood off of the dead body of her best friend.

"So you were close with her?"

Samantha nodded.

"We were like sisters," She said sadly, hanging her head, "And the same goes for Sydney – before she went…well, _insane."_

She said the last part quietly. It wasn't something she wanted to admit.

"What if you could reverse it all?"

"If I could _what?"_ Samantha's head shot up, her brow tense. "But that's…"

"I have her aboard."

Samantha's jaw dropped and she grabbed his shoulders, shaking him until his head pounded and his vision swam, firing a million questions at him that he could not quite decipher, not until she released him and he staggered off to the side.

" _Answer me!"_

Zachary doubled over, holding up a hand to silence her until he caught his breath.

"We retrieved her corpse. Just like Jewel – and you. We said that we would fix her, and I intend to make good on that promise." Finally, having collected himself, Zachary stood up again, dusting sawdust (the ship had a crew of engineers, naturally, it was everywhere) off of his shirt.

Samantha blinked, her shoulders slumping.

"Oh," she said numbly. "Oh."

A few seconds of silence passed, and then she spoke again, "Can I see her?"

"That's impossible," said Zachary. "I had to put an incantation on the room she was in – it's my magic, so it should do what I would have done – there wouldn't be enough _time_ for me to do a full reconstruction in person – which is what I did with you, and what I'm doing with Jewel right now."

"But you won't be able to do it for Sydney?"

"It would take months. Years, even. My magic drains my energy – I couldn't even move the day that I revived you, I was so exhausted."

"So I can't see her? Is it because you think I'm too… _scared_ to look at her body…?"

"No – it's because the spell sealed the door shut, and because it's dangerous for any…any being that's currently _alive."_

That had been a worrying point of his as well, as much as he did not want to admit it. He could not even enter the chamber, not without expending an enormous amount of energy to protect himself first, and energy was precious to him, it was liquid gold. There was no telling the status of Sydney's body – he could predict the rate of progress, yes, but he could never be truly certain.

He was also secretly afraid of what he would find – perhaps he would be confronted with a soulless, but physically reanimated version of her faceless, rotting form, straight from the most potent of nightmares.

So no, he concluded, you can't see her. Not right now, I'm sorry.

But he did agree to point out the door to her.

"It's that one, just down there – yes, two to the left from that one!" And Samantha was now looking at a narrow door tucked away into one of the slanted sides of the hallway which had obviously rounded off at the hull. From underneath the door, a faint green glow could be seen – and Samantha shivered, partially with wonder, but mostly from fear.

And then she looked up and froze.

There, standing just a few feet in front of Sydney's door, was Quintus – yes, she could see the light reflecting off of his blue, diamond-cut eyes.

" _You!"_ She screamed, eyes wide and face red with rage. The clockwork, obviously having heard, spun around in an instant, locking gazes with her. He was not holding his rifle.

"Samantha Hawkins. It is i-i-impossible that you are still – "

But he did not get to say anything further, because Samantha had charged at him like a frenzied bull, her enormous, powerful frame slamming into his own and sending him flying, his head connecting with a _smack_ against the wall behind him.

" _YOU BASTARD! YOU DEMON!"_

Grabbing him by the collar of his jacket, Samantha dragged him up, but he had drawn the military dagger from his belt and driven it into her arm. She yelped in pain and flinched – letting go for just long enough for him to squirm free of her hold, holding the small, but bloodied blade in front of him defensively.

"My Commander is….is _resting…_ she is exhausted because of _you!"_ He swung at her and she easily caught his thin wrist, clenching her fist around it – how easy would it be for her to _snap_ him, right now, the being that had shot her dead like an animal, and the cause of Sydney's descent and obsession? Samantha threw back her head and laughed, the sound dripping with utter bitterness.

"Resting? You think she's _resting?!"_

"It is only inevitable. She is still human, and – "

"She's not _resting,_ you devil, she's DEAD!"

"Impossible."

"DEAD, you hear me?! DEAD!"

And now she was crying, sobbing, wailing as she rained down blows upon him that he tried to dodge but only with _some_ success. "She's dead! Dead, dead, DEAD!"

"You _slander_ her!"

" _AND YOU KILLED HER!"_ Samantha flipped him over so that he was pinned beneath her, easily holding him to the ground. "How does it _feel,_ being on the other end of the blade, huh?! You were the _reason_ she stopped eating, and the _reason_ she was willing to kill us and throw us _away,_ after all we…after all we _DID FOR HER! AFTER ALL WE WENT THROUGH…!"_

"For God's sakes, what's going – oh, _Lord."_

Benjamin had just rushed into the room, panic and dread evident on his face as he looked at the scene before him – both clockwork and woman disheveled, blade marks on the doorframes and splintered wood all over the floor.

"Samantha, get off him!"

" _No!_ I can't…you don't _understand,_ I can't let him go…and y-you _brought_ him on here?! After what he _caused?! How COULD YOU?!"_

Benjamin closed her eyes and mentioned silently, with one hand.

"Zachary, a little help, if you please."

And then the witchdoctor's hand was on Samantha's solid, built shoulder, and he had not spoken a single word, but that was all it took to bring a wave of lethargy and fatigue over her. Her hands fell limply to her sides, and she did not resist as Benjamin walked over and pulled her to her feet, shoving her aside quickly only to take her place on top of the clockwork, wrestling the dagger out of his grip.

"Take her back in, Zachary – I'll deal with him."

Zachary did not know what had just happened, nor _why –_

His Commander wasn't _sleeping._ He'd been saying that from the very beginning, he'd been insistent, as if he was in denial – and even now, that still held true.

Still, a few more seconds, and at least one of them would have likely been dead. He gently pushed her back into his own cabin, where Samantha's own corpse had been when he was reconstructing it, and looked back once before shutting the door.

It was just long enough for him to see Benjamin forcing Quintus up and through the hallways. The clockwork fought him every step of the way, but without his rifle, he was as good as helpless, and it wasn't long before the sound of Benjamin's footsteps faded into silence.

Now Zachary was left alone with Samantha, who was very confused, very shaken, and very sad.

He had simply drained some of her energy for himself – it would put her in the lull needed so that he could pry her away without getting murdered himself.

However, that spell was only temporary – it would wear off soon. He sat down and waited, watching her eyes, her pupils dilating, her twitching, small movements.

"W-what…?"

"Samantha, can you hear me?"

A slow nod.

"O-kaay. Can you _see_ me?"

Seven fast blinks, a squint, a small shake of the head. Then a nod.

"I…I can, but it's all fuzzy…"

"You aren't hurt – just tired. Here – " And then he bent over and performed what was a sort of reverse version of that spell, sacrificing a minute amount of his own energy for the sake of being able to get a _somewhat_ coherent response out of her, at least.

"Quintus was there."

"Yes, he was. And you two nearly killed each other."

Samantha laughed once – bitterly, it was more of a bark than a laugh, and Zachary was so stunned by it that he had almost failed to notice the tears that were now silently rolling down her face.

"Samantha?"

She shook her head, smiling sadly.

"Has Andrew told you yet?" She asked, "About how I died?"

"No…?"

"I'll tell you now, then – _he_ shot me. Quintus."

Zachary was stunned.

They had brought the very being that had ended her life onto this ship – Sydney may have traumatized her, broken her heart and soul, but _this_ clockwork was the one that had put the gun to her head and pulled the trigger and left her with that hairless patch on the side of her head now, that was still colored an ugly deep red.

"And the worst part is that really, he was _completely_ justified in – "

"How can you _say_ that?! If he killed you, then that's that – there's no worse crime!"

"It was because it was _my_ fault. He said it was my fault – Sydney's insanity, and what she turned into."

Zachary could not believe what he was hearing. He felt his ears burn as blood rushed to his head, mostly out of rage.

How _dare_ he – he did not care _what_ sort of being Quintus was, murder was _always_ inexcusable when it was that of an innocent, faultless subject!"

"But it _wasn't –_ Sydney's mental state isn't – _wasn't_ dependent on you!"

"But it _was,"_ Samantha said, her voice cracking as she now moved towards him, pleading him to see things from her eyes, to understand the point that she was so desperately trying to communicate with all of her might, "It _was,_ because…because I wasn't _there_ for her, I s-saw that she was hurting and…and I just….I _failed her,_ do you understand me?!"

She blamed herself. He did not understand her – he only pitied her, because she did not _deserve_ this torment, she was more kindhearted than all of the saints in the Spiral, all of the martyrs combined.

Poor, sweet Samantha, he thought, and was overcome by a great urge to weep with her.

"If I had just…been _there_ for her, when she _needed me…_ none of this would have _ever_ happened!"

And then her voice broke completely, her hands flying up to cover her face as she sobbed inconsolably. Zachary sat down on the table next to her and wrapped his skinny arms around her powerful shoulders, and found that she did not resist, instead turning inwards, towards him, dropping her last barriers and pouring her heart out.

* * *

 **I hope you enjoyed, and do be sure to leave a review!**

 **\- Severina**


	41. Chapter 41

**Chapter 41: Breaking Through**

Quintus did not weigh much as all, his frame was built to be lightweight – but that did not make dragging him up the stairs and into the Captain's cabin any easier for Benjamin. The soldier fought him with every ounce of his being, clinging to anything he could catch hold of, screaming a string of incomprehensible words, with "Commander" and "protect" making up roughly a half of it.

"Quintus – _please!_ For goodness' sake - !"

" _No - !_ You can't do this – I _must FOLLOW her – !"_

With a final pull, Benjamin yanked Quintus through the doorway, slamming it shut behind them both and locking it securely, as to ensure he would not be able to easily escape the minute his back was turned. Quintus himself, now having been entirely disarmed, looked up at him apprehensively, not entirely sure what to expect.

"How is she…how _could_ you…she was the _cause_ of my Commander's decline!" Quintus said, and Benjamin, for a moment, was not _entirely_ convinced that clockworks were indeed emotionless. But perhaps he had certainly learned to mimic his Commander, who had the most dramatic and explosive of tempers.

"The _cause?"_ Benjamin said dryly. He was skeptical of how much to believe – although he was certain that Quintus was not _lying,_ he sure wasn't telling the truth either – Samantha had been dead before Sydney, who had been the one to put her friend to death in the first place. "That's simply not possible."

He almost sneered at how cold and calculated he sounded – almost like a clockwork himself.

Oh well. Fight fire with fire, he supposed, even though the last thing he wanted to do was turn Quintus entirely hostile against him.

"It is her. If it were not for her, my Commander, she wouldn't…she wouldn't have – "

"What did she do, then?"

Quintus paused, not entirely sure that he understood.

"What?"

"Samantha. You said she was the cause – the reason that this happened. Why?"

Quintus moved about the cabin, a few feet here and there, like a trapped animal. Benjamin remained firmly in spot, his back against the door, preventing any possibility of escape.

He wasn't going anywhere.

"It was because she was the source of my Commander's torment. Her conflict."

Quintus had finally given in, and Benjamin was relieved – he would not have known what to do otherwise.

"And she did this _intentionally?"_ Samantha was such a sweet person, with an unbelievably innocent soul – it seemed unfathomable that she would consciously cause pain to someone she had spoken so highly of and cared so deeply about.

"Negative. I do not believe so. It was her mere existence."

Benjamin scoffed incredulously, and bit back the urge to slap Quintus across the face. What an insensitive remark – but he was a clockwork. This was an observation. And naturally, that meant it could not be seen correctly, not directly through _Quintus'_ eyes. No, Benjamin had to interpret this for himself, if he was to understand it fully.

"And how, may I _ask – "_ He just couldn't quite keep the spite out of his voice – "Did her _existence_ manage to be so irritating as to prompt _murder?"_

"You misunderstand."

"Then by all means, explain."

"She…m-my Commander would have had no doubts, it is quite certain, if Samantha especially had not introduced an internal conflict."

"Doubts as to what?"

"What she wanted. She is building an army, as you saw – but she knew her crew would never accept her as a leader of clockworks."

Rightfully so, Benjamin wanted to say, but didn't.

"And every action she made that took her further towards her goal, she became more…more _burdened._ I would w-watch her. In her cabin, at night. She would shout insults at her reflection…a-and she would use…"

Benjamin stepped forwards, his expression not as harsh as before, silently urging him to continue.

"She would use her…her knives on herself."

"You mean…?" Benjamin asked, making a slashing motion across his forearm – it was clear what he meant, but he was afraid that if he tried to _say_ it, all of his emotions would burst forth unexpectedly, and he would no longer be able to restrain them.

"Affirmative. And on her torso as well."

Benjamin opened and closed his mouth blankly, not knowing quite what to say, nor how to process what he had just been told. This new image of Sydney Underhill – on the floor, tearing apart her flesh, screaming in hatred at her _own reflection –_

Even when she had come to see him on the Isle of Fetch just a year ago, she had not reached _that_ low of a point.

Yes, he remembered her visit, as clear as day – she had showed up out of absolutely nowhere, pushing her way into his workshop without so much as an introduction, as Sydney did, not speaking of her mysterious disappearance for even a second. Instead, they had touched foreheads over his worktable, carefully assembling the most minute of optical mechanisms – for a scope, a rifle, she had said.

He should have caught that. Sydney couldn't shoot to save her life.

Not to mention that they were far too intricate – in fact, their overly detailed structure almost reminded him of –

" _Can it...?"_

The human eye. A mechanical replication of the human eye.

Taking hold of Quintus' shoulder, Benjamin quickly spun him around so that they faced one another, taking a good long look at those crystal-blue eyes.

The way they moved reflexively, like a human's, but with limitations – he _knew_ those limitations.

 _This_ was what Sydney had come to his workshop for.

Quintus was becoming alarmed now, not knowing why Benjamin was in such close proximity to him, looking over him like a dissected specimen and forcibly _holding_ him in place. He could not run, even if he tried, and trying in itself would only make it worse.

" _Please."_

It was not desperate, it was simply a request, and Quintus strained slightly against Benjamin's grip, but as predicted, he did not relent.

"She built those. She found me and asked for my help."

"My…"

"Your _eyes."_

"She hated them," said Quintus, obviously seeing the confusion that then resulted afterwards. "She said they made me appear more human than before. I do not see how it is a drawback – the mechanisms are far more precise. But she never forgave herself – she said that she ruined me."

"For the same reason that she – "

"Negative. She turned upon her crew because she knew they would never accept her – because the minute they found out that she held something other than hatred for the clockwork soldiers, they swore they didn't know her. Which is incorrect – she has been sailing with them for years."

Benjamin ignored his last sentence – Quintus did not understand that the phrase was an exaggeration, a metaphor, and not to be taken by its literal meaning. It was only expected.

"If perhaps Samantha had been more understanding, if she realized that her image of her Captain was nothing but an illusion, then I would not have been forced to shoot her."

"You _WHAT?!"_ Benjamin roared, and shoved Quintus away from him, sending him tumbling onto the floor.

"I killed Samantha Hawkins."

"You really are…you really _are_ a murderous – "

"I did it for the _protection_ of my Commander! I only went through with it because there was, simply, _no other alternative!"_

Benjamin shook his head – Quintus' words had fallen on deaf ears.

"My Commander was going _mad!_ She was going _mad_ with guilt over abandoning Samantha – and if Samantha had never been – "

"And your solution was to KILL her?! That doesn't change anything – it just makes it WORSE!"

Having just staggered back to his feet, Quintus froze, stunned.

"I made it… _worse…?"_

"What happened, Quintus, when your Commander found out that Samantha was dead?"

Quintus almost appeared to brace himself before he spoke.

"She…she mourned. She said that _she_ had killed her. And then she became enraged at the fact that she had mourned."

"And then?"

"And then…and then she…she hated her physical frame. She always has. She tried to _fix_ herself."

Images of Sydney's defaced corpse flashed through Benjamin's head, the little lump of flesh lying just a few feet away, the bloody, rusted scalpel clutched tightly in her hand, and the white musketeer's mask in the other.

She tried to fix herself. A clockwork leader for her clockwork legions, that was what she wanted.

"It exhausted her greatly. She fell into sleep. It is something she greatly needs and – "

" _Quintus."_ Benjamin said, in what was very much a warning tone, silencing the clockwork. "Sydney Underhill is _dead."_

"No."

"She is _dead,_ Quintus."

"She is simply _asleep!"_

But Benjamin continued to insist – he wasn't going to just follow along with Quintus' strange sense of denial, guarding over a corpse as if it was still living and breathing – he _couldn't_ keep talking about Sydney as if she was still alive, because he did not have it within himself to do it, to face the murderer that she had now become. Perhaps it was good that her soul had been ripped from her body, and suddenly Benjamin was filled with a great fear as to what would happen, if Zachary successfully resurrected her.

"She is _DEAD!_ Quintus, are you BLIND?! Her flesh is decayed, there are maggots _burrowing_ in her chest! Andrew and I could barely _lift_ her because her _flesh was coming loose from her body!"_

"Can't be."

Another denial, but this one was different, as if he was trying to convince himself rather than Benjamin this time. His certainty, his perception had been badly shaken and rattled to the core – for once, maybe it was possible that she was not in fact asleep.

"I was given orders. To watch her. To watch her while…while she rests…"

"It is no _use,_ Quintus," Benjamin said forcefully, "to watch a _corpse."_

"She is sleeping…she is _SLEEPING!"_

And in a single, deliberate movement, Quintus lunged at Benjamin, sharp fingers digging painfully into his shoulders and trying to force him out of the way of the door, removing the obstacle that prevented him from reaching his Commander. Benjamin, by far the stronger of the two, caught him easily, holding him firmly in place as he struggled to break free.

" _Release me!"_

" _STOP IT!"_ Benjamin bellowed. _"SYDNEY UNDERHILL IS DEAD! AND IT WAS AN OBSESSION WITH YOUR CURSED KIND THAT KILLED HER!"_

Quintus went lax in his grip and Benjamin almost felt sorry for him. He knew that his eyes were just a mechanism built of gemstone cuts and microscopic gears and tiny lenses, but he could almost _swear_ that in that moment, he had seen nothing but despair within them. A soldier without orders had no function. A soldier whose only _purpose_ was to follow orders was rendered completely and utterly useless.

And a soldier without a Commander was nonexistent.

Benjamin could practically hear the gears within his processor spinning and clicking, but comprehending nothing nevertheless. How. What now. What now. What do I do now.

He had not looked away from Benjamin, but he was no longer making an attempt to escape either.

"I swore to her," said Quintus. Benjamin motioned for him to continue, releasing his grip on him. "I swore to her that I would always protect her. A-and I do not understand… _how_ I am to do so…if I am unable to see _where_ she is…"

"You can't go in there. In the room where she is."

"I do not understand – "

"It's enchanted. No one can go in there – it might tamper with the healing process. Not even the witchdoctor who created it himself can enter without fear of _dying._ "

"The healing process?" said Quintus, numbly. "You are healing her?"

"I suppose you could say that."

Quintus reconsidered. Or at least Benjamin assumed he did.

The door opened and Andrew meekly entered, somewhat under the impression that he had interrupted something.

"Should I come back later?"

"No, Andrew, stay – you're fine. I've explained Sydney's condition to…to _Quintus._ " It was obvious to tell that Benjamin was not used to and did not like referring to a clockwork as if he was merely another person with a real beating heart and a working, functioning soul instead of a mess of gears and wires and delicately sculpted metal framing.

"He tells me that your accomplice is healing her. This is true?" Quintus looked directly at Andrew now, his blue-white eyes searching for and demanding answers, as if they could be pulled directly from the musketeer's brain. If only.

"I…er…yes, I suppose that _is_ true," Andrew answered hesitantly, "but I actually came here to ask _you_ some questions."

"I am most certainly not at the liberty to answer anything that would sacrifice her safety – "

"And I will not _ask_ you to. What I want to know is how many troops she still has under her command. They've been left without a Commander, haven't they – as have you?"

"Well, the…every last one of the clockworks within the tunnels, she had just turned them recently – "

"And you were her first?"

"Affirmative. And there was one more after me – another officer. Perhaps he would have assumed Command in the…in the _meantime."_

"There _was_ another officer?"

"His bloodpaths emptied. And therefore her allegiance was drained from him. He was terminated, and by his own actions."

Andrew said nothing else. He shared a knowing, but still curious glance with his cousin – they would decode his words later, when Quintus himself was out of earshot. There was no telling how he would react to their intents to revive her, to bring her over to _their_ cause, to fight _other_ clockworks, more of his kind.

"It is our goal to restore her, you have our word," Benjamin concluded gracefully, and motioned for him to stay within the cabin, stepping out and letting Andrew follow. They were on the deck now, out and exposed, but alone. Very few dared to come up above now, ever since the Armada patrol ship had been spotted. They had found cover and refuge in the enormous cloud of wreckage that surrounded them – no doubt having resulted from Prima's final conquering attack upon the island.

"His bloodpaths _emptied?!"_ Andrew hissed, looking over his shoulder once and dropping his voice. "The hell'd he mean by that?"

"It means that he _bled_ himself to death. Clockworks _bleed,_ Andrew."

The height that his cousin's eyebrows reached indicated that this was news to him.

"And – "

"And _that's_ why we can't just simply _reprogram_ them! It's like a security system – whatever runs in their bloodpaths, whatever they are, is what runs through Kane's – they can identify their leader from an imposter!"

"Then how did _he – "_ Andrew jerked his thumb through the door – "End up following _her?"_

"She replaced the initial substance with her _own_ blood. That's the weakness of using the substrate that the clockworks do – living cells can _easily_ overtake them, with the properties of – "

"Of _DNA…!"_

"Exactly!" Exclaimed Benjamin.

Andrew hushed him and it was only then that Benjamin realized how loud his voice had gotten. It was a terrible habit of his – he was an inventor by nature, much like every single one of his engineers, and new discoveries excited him more than anything. He cursed himself for his weakness – a leader should remain calm and composed.

"But," Benjamin continued, now in a whisper, "do you even know what this _means?_ It means that if – _when_ she wakes up – they'll _follow her again!"_

Fight fire with fire, he remembered.

And likewise, fight one clockwork force with another.

* * *

 **I hope you enjoyed, and be sure to leave a review!**

 **\- Severina**


	42. Chapter 42

**Chapter 42: Misery is Reborn**

Zachary came and retrieved Samantha when all of the preparations were made. She was in Andrew's cabin, as per usual, trying to make light conversation with him, and to Zachary's own surprise, she was actually _succeeding._ His friend was known for being reserved, like a turtle too afraid to poke its head out of his shell.

Seeing him at ease and conversing was definitely something new.

Zachary rapped his fist on the open door three times, out of politeness, and the both of them looked up at the sound, startled, but not unpleasantly so.

"Something's happened?"

"Not yet, but it's about to," said Zachary. "Samantha?"

Her lips setting into a grim line of determination, Samantha nodded and rose to her feet, dusting herself off. She looked just as powerful as she had been rumored to be – a towering figure, now clad in leather and a fitted chestplate that hugged her torso close, having been made to be as thin as possible while still providing protection.

Waiting until she had reached the door where he was standing now, Zachary did not speak further – they both knew what this meant.

"She's…?"

"She's ready. Follow me."

Zachary turned and led her away from Andrew's cabin, turning the corner and continuing down the hallway, towards the small little portion of the ship that he and his experiments occupied. She already knew which door led to Jewel's chamber, once Zachary's cabin – they had been in and out of it so many times.

Through the door was the table, upon the table was the corpse.

Zachary's work, she instantly realized, was magnificent – she had helped as long as she possibly could, sponging away re-vitalized blood when it began to pour of ancient wounds, stitching torn flesh together, but when all that was visible was contained, it was entirely left to Zachary and his magic himself to bring her function, to bring her veins and flesh and bodily systems back into their proper positions and roles.

She looked as if she was simply sleeping, as if she would wake up and fix Samantha with her signature icy glare the minute that she sensed someone _daring_ to intrude upon her space.

However, both Samantha and Zachary were inside the cabin and she did not stir. She remained, for now, devoid of life, the only coverings over her body being the fresh bandages wound around her bosom and the clean smallclothes borrowed from the sky chest of one of the female engineers on board. Zachary approached her, placing a single hand upon her chest, just below her collarbones and the hollow of her throat.

It was time to begin. He looked up at Samantha.

"Are you ready?"

Samantha nodded.

"She's going to need you," said Zachary.

"I know."

That was all the confirmation he needed. Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, Zachary concentrated deep within himself, channeling every ounce of energy into the corpse of the petite woman on the table before him.

As Samantha watched, a green glow, originating from the palm of Zachary's hand, slowly enveloped the entirety of Jewel's body, like a nebula surrounds the traces of an early star or world. He was concentrating immensely, she could tell – his forehead was drenched with sweat, and with every passing second, he looked more and more exhausted.

Zachary's eyes were tightly shut, his face screwed up in an expression of endless agony as he became more worn – as he _shrank_ in front of Samantha's eyes, the effort that transcending the realms took sapping the energy right out of his physical body.

She was afraid, he could tell, even without opening his eyes or pausing to look – she was looking at him with apprehension, with wide eyes and fear, because his face was turning from chiseled to skeletal, and his clothing now hung off of his bones rather than fitting nicely to his form.

It's okay, he thought, and on a purely wild whim, hoped that she could hear it.

And then a bright, white light overtook his field of vision, and just as before, he was transported in the blink of an eye, from one instant to the next.

Now the table was no longer there, and neither was Samantha or Jewel's corpse – but _here,_ suspended in the air as if it was liquid, before him, was what he had sought – Jewel's spirit.

Just as Samantha had been when he had entered the realm of the spirits, she was still, unmoving, and rigid, her long, black hair floating and drifting all around her. He took a cautious step towards her, and instantly, her head snapped in his direction, eyes devoid of all emotion.

Zachary gulped. Something was not right here.

"Um…Jewel…?"

Confusion spread across his features, Zachary reached out for her arm, just like he had with Samantha, but she drew away sharply.

" _No."_

Dread filled the pit of his stomach. He could not stay forever in this realm, and although he could not feel it now, he knew that by the second, his body was getting thinner and thinner, and soon, he would no longer able to –

Failure was not an option. If he stopped now, he would not be able to return for months.

"Jewel, _please,_ we _need_ you to – "

" _NO!"_ Jewel shrieked, and ran, leaving Zachary to sprint after her in the endless void.

Meanwhile, still back in the physical realm that all save for the dead knew as home, Samantha watched Zachary with increasing alarm. Had it taken this long to revive her? He was very nearly skeletal, his knees almost giving out, and she leaped up and wrapped an arm around his waist, holding him up so that he could concentrate solely on retrieving her.

 _Come on, Jewel, come on!_

Zachary's breathing was shallow, his lips shriveling until they cracked and bled.

" _Please,"_ whispered Zachary, fainter than an evening breeze, and Samantha understood what was going on.

Jewel was not letting him in. She was guarding herself – and thus he could not bring her back, and if he failed now, there was no _telling_ when - !

It was not an option. It was not a choice.

Jewel had to be retrieved, and _now –_ no alternatives, Samantha decided.

"Jewel," said Samantha, into Zachary's ear, as if this would allow Jewel to hear her as well. "Jewel, you can trust him. You can trust me. Please."

And although _she_ did not know if her own words had an effect, Zachary, who was face-to-face with the swashbuckler's ghost, certainly did – Samantha's high, lilting voice soared overhead, above them both like an all-powerful, unseen being, and they froze in place.

Jewel's expression changed from one of rage to one of sadness – of fear.

"Trust…trust him…?"

" _Trust him for me,"_ said the echoing, soaring voice with no visible body, _"trust him for me. I am here. And I am waiting for you, Jewel."_

Jewel's lip trembled, her eyes widening.

" _S-sam…?!"_

There was no reply, but the look in Jewel's eyes told Zachary that there was no confirmation needed – she knew. She knew that voice by heart. Zachary held out his hand again, palm outstretched towards her to indicate that he meant no harm, that he was not a threat.

This time, she took it.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

Samantha, at first, could not tell if it had worked. All that she could see was that the green light enveloping Jewel's corpse had completely dissipated, all that she was consciously aware of was that Zachary, now in a half-conscious daze, had slid to the floor against her body, now leaning back upon her legs, eyelids lazily fluttering and breath short.

And then there was a horrible rasping noise and a scream as Jewel shot up on the table, curling in on herself and clutching her abdomen with both of her hands, shrieking and sobbing hysterically.

" _PLEASE! STOP! SYDNEY, PLEASE, DON'T DO THIS! DON'T DO THIS! YOU'RE HURTING ME, PELASE, I'M SORRY! I'M SORRY!"_

Samantha swallowed back the bile that rose in her throat, realizing that she was still in the midst of her last living memory – being torn apart by her madwoman of a Captain, and Samantha stepped over Zachary, wrapping her strong arms around Jewel's writhing form.

"Jewel, ssssh, it's me – It's Sam, you're all right now…"

" _GET HER AWAY! DON'T…SAM, DON'T LET HER - !"_

"She's not here, you're safe…" Samantha whispered, rubbing her friend's back soothingly as she gasped, feeling Jewel's heart – her _beating heart,_ she almost wept with joy – pounding against her own.

"Not…here…?" gasped Jewel, drenched in her own sweat, still enveloped in Samantha's arms. Her breath still caught with sobs, and every inch of her was shaking, loose, long black hair plastering itself to her bare back and shoulders and arms.

She was a hysterical mess, as was only reasonable, and it was all Samantha could do to be her rock in this awful, merciless storm.

"Sam… _Sam,_ you don't know what…I can't believe she would…!" Her voice cracked, and she finally surrendered, dissolving into heartbroken sobs. Samantha sat upon the table and it creaked under the weight of them both (Samantha accounting for most of it), pulling Jewel tightly against her torso, letting her bury her head into her strong, muscled shoulder and release all of the grief, the pain that came from such a betrayal.

"Did it work?!"

Arms flailing wildly, Zachary abruptly stumbled back to his feet, and Jewel shrieked, hiding her face like a frightened child.

" _Get him away!"_

"Amazing… _amazing!"_ Zachary exclaimed, staggering and swaying on his feet. Samantha paled. He looked nearly dead. He had been slender before, but now he was outright _emaciated –_ it would be at least a week before he would even be able to _stand_ properly without exhausting himself, let alone work!

"Sit down," Samantha said, trying her very best to keep her voice even and calm. "Don't exhaust yourself."

But Zachary was much too excited for that. Leaning over the edge of the table, he tried to get a closer look at Jewel's hidden face, only to be pushed away by Samantha, who, still not knowing her own strength, sent him flying back into the wall.

" _Zachary!_ Oh, I'm sorry – "

"No, no – don't worry! Nothing's wrong, nothing's wrong at _all!"_ Zachary cried ecstatically. "This is tremendous – I've got to let them know, they'll be _thrilled – "_

"Don't you _dare,"_ Samantha growled, and Zachary, startled by the sudden change in the usually light-hearted, good-natured young woman, stopped in his tracks. "You'll just scare her more – _look_ at her!"

"Don't let him…don't _let_ him..!" Jewel whimpered.

"You can trust him," Samantha whispered, the same words that she had spoken _through_ Zachary in an attempt to persuade her friend to give this whole endeavor a chance. "He's an ally."

She jerked her head once, motioning for Zachary to approach – _slowly_ , she reminded him with a carefully aimed glare, and then introduced them. Jewel, this is Zachary. Zachary, this is Jewel.

Zachary tried to offer a shaky smile, knowing that if he held out his hand again it ran the risk of getting bitten off by one or both of them. Not that he blamed them, of course – being yanked from life to death and then back to life again was a terrifying process, one that many did not consider as even being possible.

"He brought me back?"

"He did. Did you see him?"

"I…I did…and I never thought that – "

"That there would be anything after? Yeah, I did too – I was scared. But he's brought you back, just like he did for me."

"For…for _you…?"_ Jewel said quizzically, and then, as the meaning dawned upon her, the color drained from her face. "Sam…?"

At first, Samantha didn't understand _why_ Jewel was so shocked – and then she remembered that Jewel had been killed before Quintus shot her down, and so as far as Jewel's knowledge went, Samantha had remained alive.

And now she had discovered otherwise.

"You…you _too?"_

"No. Quintus. He followed me out, and…and I _let_ him."

Jewel's jaw dropped, and tears filled her eyes.

"You _let_ him…? But why…why would you _do_ something like that?"

Because I deserved it, Samantha said, but she didn't voice that. Instead, she only closed her eyes, and Jewel didn't press the question further.

"And why would _he…"_

She now turned to Zachary, wriggling out of Samantha's hold, obviously stronger, although her knee-length hair was plastered to her body and her skin was damp with sweat. Samantha released her, standing again herself – she had become cramped and tense after sitting still for so long.

"Why did you bring us back?"

The question was sternly asked, and in a tone that demanded an answer, without compromise. He owed it to her, and Zachary explained the situation in a few short, choppy sentences.

The Armada had taken over Skull Island, and the survivors were under threat of extinction. Things were definitely not looking good. They had retrieved Sydney, who was locked in another adjacent room –

At which Jewel screamed.

" _YOU BASTARD! YOU DEVIL, SHE…SHE KILLED ME!"_

"JEWEL!" Samantha yelled, but only to get her attention, quieting her voice soon after. "Sydney's dead. It's just her body."

Jewel turned pale and swayed on her feet. Samantha started to rush towards her, but an icy glare from the swashbuckler warded her off. Right now, she just had to go along with it – Jewel wasn't going to be rational or reasonable, not after an experience like this. She was going to be made solely and purely of emotion, for a very, very long time.

"And so you drag my bleeding body out of the tunnels all the way back here, just to sew me up again so that you can use me as a _weapon?"_ She said, with no shortage of mirth in her voice and a copious amount of biting venom as well. Zachary nearly flinched.

"Well – _no,_ of course not – you're not a _weapon,_ Jewel, I – "

"Then why would you bring me back, huh? You said it yourself – the Armada's taken the island, so of _course,_ your solution is to resurrect the strongwoman of the island and Sydney Underhill's knife-girl so that you can shove them onto your front lines!?" She said sarcastically, raising arched eyebrows. Her thin lips were twisted into a spiteful snarl.

Zachary was stunned. This was the last thing he had wanted – if anything, he was _against_ bringing them back for the purpose of having them fight, even if it only _was_ a secondary purpose – but he could not lie to her and say that this was not what they intended – they meaning Benjamin, Andrew, the rest of the guild, and the survivors that were counting on them.

" _Get out,"_ Jewel spat. Zachary stared dumbly. "GET OUT! Out, the BOTH of you!"

And without waiting for even so much as a second for them to respond, Jewel leapt out from behind the table, shoving both Zachary and Samantha (who did not even bother to resist) out the door and slamming it shut behind them. They heard the bolt-lock slide into place, and then the high-pitched, rage-filled scream that followed.

Zachary and Samantha exchanged alarmed glances.

"What do we do _now?"_ Zachary sighed, crossing his arms. "She's probably going to try and kill me the first chance she gets."

"She won't." Samantha looked at the deck, and then at the door, and then back again. "Just give her some time." She turned and left the hallway, leaving Zachary alone.

* * *

 **I hope you enjoyed, and be sure to leave a review!**

 **\- Severina**


	43. Chapter 43

**Chapter 43: Complications and Chemicals**

For the first time in weeks, the ships of the guild had been able to safely dock, momentarily exposing themselves from the cloud of wreckage that they had been concealed in.

 _And thank God for that,_ Benjamin thought to himself, having just finished making his rounds. He had not been able to do so in quite a while, and it was nearly a month and a half overdue. So far, things had proceeded smoothly, according to plan – just the thing they needed, after so many chaotic upheavals, with fear of the Armada still running rampant.

In his hand was a clipboard, filled with his own barely-legible scrawling that even he could make neither head nor tail of sometimes. The inventory that he had just taken showed promising results – during that brief period of time that no living being had dared to show his face on deck for fear of detection, each and every engineer aboard the ships had been tirelessly working below.

As a result, they had ample amounts of explosives of all types, enough ammunition to last for the next year and a half, and defensive trap devices to guard the ships and the land surrounding, should they be needed. There were also some new designs that he had never seen before, no doubt invented during the period of isolation. Benjamin made a mental note to review them later on, when he found the time.

It had been nearly a month since Zachary had revived Jewel Zabra, the second of Underhill's crewmembers and the very first of her personal victims. Even now, he could see her stretching her legs, pacing to and fro on the deck of his own ship, and was infinitely grateful of Samantha's presence on board. Had it not been for her, she likely would have been much less cooperative, risking her own life, as well as those of all the rest.

That was not to say that the fear had disappeared – far from it, in fact, and at the moment he was struggling to choke a large amount of it down.

The Armada will find –

They will find us, and what then, he said, almost aloud, to himself. Now that Hunter Chamberlain had established an albeit shaky means of contact with him and made their situation known, he could not turn away from offering aid. They would take back the island and chase the clockworks out, or die trying.

But for now, Prima still had control over these skies, and every so often, one of her patrol ships would peek in and out of Tradewinds. That was enough to chill Benjamin's blood – and although his crewmembers, trying to follow their leader, put on an admirably brave front, he knew they were just as terrified.

Enough, he decided, and descended the gangplank of the last ship that he had inspected, making his way back to his own. As he walked across the deck of the unofficial flagship of the guild, he passed Jewel, and the two of them exchanged respectful nods, Jewel looking nonchalant and relaxed as ever.

She was clad in a dark, but elegant evening jacket made of silk, from Mooshu, of course – it was likely a luxury item of one of the female engineers, judging by its size, but whoever the kind soul had been, she had willingly given it up to Zabra, wanting the guild to seem like more of a family, and to remind her of her home. Jewel may have run away from Mooshu (and carried infinite guilt that she did so, especially when she had found that the apothecary was targeted and destroyed by the Armada), but the love she held for her homeland had never diminished, even after all these years.

She continued past him without so much as a second glance, her hair back in its long, tight braid, and he did the same.

As of now, he had a different matter to attend to.

Benjamin crossed the deck quickly, retrieving the ring of keys from his coat pocket and unlocking the door to his cabin before slipping inside, shutting it quickly afterwards.

As always, he looked to the corner, expecting to find the clockwork there – Benjamin had been monitoring his patterns of speech, his behavior, to see _exactly_ how strong the bond of loyalty was between him and his Commander.

Sydney was dead, yet she still held his loyalty – it had not made any sense whatsoever, not until Andrew had unveiled the discovery that the clockworks' allegiance to her was carried through her blood, through her genes and DNA. Her body, as dead as it may be, was still made from those same genes.

She still held their loyalty, as long as a trace of her existed in this world.

This time, Quintus was not in the corner as he usually was. Instead, he was neatly perched on the end of Benjamin's box bed, hands resting atop of his legs. Benjamin took note of this.

But, he soon realized, this was not the only abnormality present.

Upon nearing Quintus, a peculiar sound – of rapid movement – became evident. At first Benjamin had been confused. To his knowledge, both he and Quintus were still – but then he saw the slight shaking of his legs, the tremors that made his shoulders rise and fall.

"You're shaking," Benjamin said, almost dumbfounded..

"A-affirmative." _I suppose I am,_ Quintus might have said – he was unaffected. "This is a cause for alarm?"

"Well, I would certainly think so," Benjamin said. Why, he wanted to ask, but he doubted that Quintus knew either.

"Let me go."

" _No,"_ said Benjamin, exasperated. Every day they went through this – Quintus would relentlessly push for his own freedom so that he could go back to the rotting husk of his Commander, and Benjamin would, again and again, refuse him.

"T-then why does this s-surprise…you?" said Quintus, tilting his head – this indicated a _question,_ he knew, based on when his Commander and her crew had done it.

"Why does it…? Oh, for the love of-!" Benjamin grumbled. He had a point – clockworks had only one function, and that was to serve their Supreme Commander. Kane was the wielder of this undying loyalty by default, but it certainly was not the case for this singular soldier that was locked in his cabin now.

He could not complete his one and only order, because Zachary had warned him, and therefore Benjamin himself forbade it.

And so the rest of him –

 _He can't function._

Benjamin looked over his shoulder again from where he stood at his desk, back at Quintus – it made perfect sense, the stutters and halting in his speech – like a broken, faulty machine. That's exactly what he was – these handicaps weren't there when he was first brought aboard.

"Please."

It seemed earnest this time, and Benjamin bit back a surge of guilt. He pitied him, he really did – having only one purpose, only for the achievement of it to be unattainable.

"Let me s-see…see her, _please!"_

In a flash of movement, Quintus darted from the door again, but almost halfheartedly, as if he was indeed human and mortal and overcome with fatigue. Benjamin caught him easily, grabbing hold of his wrists and _refusing_ to let him move any further forwards. He struggled – every atom within him was utterly determined to return to her – but once he realized that there was, in fact, a _zero_ percent chance of that happening with Benjamin's hold on him, he went slack, collapsing forwards, his processor a blur of chopped equations and half-finished calculations.

" _She needs me! S-she…needs me!"_

Benjamin stood rooted in place, shocked to the core, just barely holding up Quintus' form – even through his hands he could feel the clicking, the rhythmic vibrations of those internal, intricate gear systems working themselves into overdrive. How terrible it must be, Benjamin thought, to not be able to move, to think, to decide, all because the basis of it – loyalty to his Commander – could not be fulfilled.

"We'll fix her," he finally managed to say, as if comforting someone in mourning, because that's what this was, more or less. "We'll fix her. You'll see. You'll have your Commander again, and then you can stand guard over her day and night."

The clockwork was leaning forwards now, into his form, legs twitching as he tried to stand upright but failed, short spasms – shorts of electricity – running through his featherlight frame.

" _I don't…know w-what to do without her..."_

Nothing existed without her. He would become as dormant, as unmoving and unthinking as if he was terminated, and already, he was beginning to show it. It was like a slow death – if he had belonged to Kane, his loyalty would have then fallen to the rest of the elite court, but his own Commander had no clear successor (or so it seemed to Benjamin) and thus there was _nothing_ left.

The soldiers looked to their officers, and their officers looked to –

To Quintus _himself,_ Benjamin remembered, as if he had traveled back in time to when they had exited the tunnels, the clockworks parting before them to make a path.

Quintus was the Commander – but he himself was convinced that still, there remained a higher power. There was no convincing him out of that, no convincing him that for all they may know, Sydney Underhill was dead and gone and never coming back.

Benjamin pitied him, yet there was nothing he could do to fix him.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

Feverishly, Zachary cracked open his eyelids and blinked slowly, once, then twice, ignoring the sensation that made him feel like they had rocks sewn to them. His entire body ached, and it was several minutes before he had regained enough lucidity and control to even wiggle his fingers again.

The door opened and Samantha quietly stepped in, making sure to muffle the sound as she closed it behind her. She was carrying something in her hands – probably a bowl – although Zachary couldn't quite make it out, with his blurry, unfocused vision.

"Feeling any better?"

"Not really," Zachary managed to groan, "But I can feel my limbs again. I suppose that's improvement."

Samantha smiled thinly and pulled up a chair beside the cramped box bed that Zachary was currently buried in underneath a mound of thick, coarse blankets. It was indeed an improvement. Jewel's resistance to letting Zachary escort her back into the land of the living had prolonged the time he had stayed within the spirit realm, draining his body twice as much as he had intended, and shortly after she had left Zachary in the small hallway that was his unofficial territory, she had come back to find him collapsed on the ground.

Exhausted, no doubt, but she had never expected it to be of such magnitude – he had not regained consciousness until an entire _week_ had passed, and during that time, she had monitored his temperature, his condition, his emaciated state to see if it had worsened. Eventually, she had even been able to convince Jewel to concoct a stabilizing mixture out of the numerous chemicals that Zachary had with him in the lab, using a crude needle to inject it directly into his veins, albeit some spillage.

In the end, the potion had certainly done its job – his vitals had stabilized, and slowly, he had started to come out of whatever stupor he had been placed in to begin with.

Now, the end of the third week was nearing and he could sit up on his own, he could even stand up and walk around – although only for short periods of time before the exhaustion would become overwhelming and sleep would claim him again.

With the engineers' time occupied by the resupplying of weapons, explosives, and ammunition, the only food present aboard the ship were the various pickled and salted meats, the supply of fish and also of gruel that was nearly depleted in its own. There were, of course, eggs and other such items – but those would require cooking, and there were none aboard any of the five ships that could afford to leave their workplace, even for a brief period of time, to take up this task.

That was, until Samantha had stumbled across the stores.

She was hyperactive and bored, and thus constantly poked her head into every room she could find, almost like a curious child, and hence she had discovered her natural talent for food. Part of it was, she was convinced, because she ate _so much –_ or she had used to anyways. And this wasn't exactly something that she had made known to the rest of the ship, either – but whatever she prepared, it would almost certainly be easier on Zachary's system than the coarse, crude food that the engineers choked down daily for the sake of saving time.

Pushing himself up in the tiny box bed that Samantha had forcibly cleared all of the beakers and papers off of, he reached out, taking the bowl of soup that Samantha had made for him and holding it securely into his lap. He had a decent amount of energy, yes, Samantha observed, watching him eat.

Although it would likely only last for a few minutes.

He had been up and at it no less than seven hours ago, at his lab table (now fixed, the glass shards having been swept away), busily combining and mixing and heating and sifting in order to produce what was, in the end, a flavorless paste in a small glass dish. Several of them lay in a row, lids overtop them to keep dust and other such contaminants out.

"Has she come by yet?" Zachary asked between mouthfuls.

"Not yet, but I saw her on deck earlier. She'll probably be around soon."

"Good," Zachary mumbled, trying to keep himself from eating too fast even though he was absolutely _famished_ now that his appetite had finally returned.

The paste in question was Jewel's only source of food. Since Zachary had not been able to fully salvage what remained of her intestines, he pieced together the parts and segments that could be mended. However, this now meant that her digestive tract could not put such a large effort into digestion as a normal person would – it would expend more energy than any food would ever give her.

Therefore, he had developed _this –_ a flavorless, white, thick paste that stuck to the roof of your mouth and left you dehydrated, but it contained all the necessary calories, vitamins, and other such essential elements that were needed for a person to adequately function and survive. It dissolved easily, passing through the stomach and intestines without much effort or time at all.

He felt bad for Jewel – she could not taste any food with real flavor, for the time being, as it would cause her indigestion – but for now, the primary objective was to keep her alive.

There was a knock on the door and Zachary set the bowl aside, swinging his knobby-kneed legs over the edge of the bed and standing just as Jewel walked in.

"Hey. Any better?"

"I can stand up without seeing stars, so that's something."

Samantha suppressed a laugh. As much as she wanted to lighten the mood, she also got the sense that it would somehow be terribly inappropriate.

"I'm just here for my stuff, so sorry if I woke you up – I'll take it and leave. Go back to sleep," Jewel said, nonchalantly. Reaching over, Jewel gingerly retrieved one of the units of paste, being careful not to knock over any of the open beakers with her arms or sleeves, even though the jacket fit to her body tightly. She was gone as soon as she came.

"I guess she's gotten used to it then?" Zachary asked when she left. He wasn't usually awake for her daily trips to his cabin. Samantha shrugged.

"I suppose."

It had been three weeks, nearly a month since Jewel had opened her eyes again, soaked with sweat and her stomach stitched shut. She seemed to have adjusted quite well.

* * *

 **I hope you enjoyed, and be sure to leave a review!**

 **\- Severina**


	44. Chapter 44

**Chapter 44: The Survivors' Close Shave**

It was late at night and the wind howled through the channel, filling the cove with a blustery gale, sweeping over the dozens of ships that were currently anchored in one massive cluster around the sole island in the center. Standing securely in the crow's nest of the outermost ship, the scout on watch held a glass to his left eye.

There was a little window between the rocks of the narrow channel – just enough for those within the opening to see out into the skyway, but not enough to allow those outside to see in.

In this way, it was extremely convenient, although given how narrow the opening was, after an hour had already passed, it became extremely trying on one's eyes.

That time threshold had passed about now. The scout shook his head, blinking rapidly a few times and rubbing his temples in an attempt to stave off the headache that would inevitably set in within the next hour.

One quarter already down, he told himself, nearly there. He put the glass back to his eye.

It must have been either impeccable timing on his part or sheer dumb luck, because it was in that moment that he saw a turbine-sailed ship drift into view of the opening. It was an Armada frigate, and soon, four more joined it.

The scout's heart was in his throat as he scrambled down the rigging, nearly falling and killing himself in the process all while trying to make as little noise as was humanly possible. He had to inform Hunter, he had to inform Vadima, they had to _do_ something, quick!

So many times before had they seen Armada ships pass them by, and everyone held their breath for the few seconds that they were in the state of utmost vulnerability, but this was the first time that so _many_ had appeared at once. Not to mention that all of them had gathered and stopped near the very entrance to the channel.

That means they suspected something.

Dashing across gangplanks and over railings, the scout made his way towards the centermost ship, the one built in Marleybone and the one housing the Resistance patron-now-leader.

He sprinted up to the door of the cabin and tapped lighly, but urgently. They were far from the ships, but clockworks had much more acute senses than humans ever would and he would rather not underestimate their abilities when they were so close to being found and made extinct.

" _Mister Chamberlain! Mister Chamberlain, sir, please, come quick!"_

Rapid, urgent footsteps could be heard from behind the door and suddenly it was wrenched open. The scout, who had been leaning a good portion of his body weight onto it, stumbled forwards.

"What is it? What did you see – the _Fife?"_

 _Worse,_ the scout wanted to say, but he did not know _if_ it was worse – a flesh-eating demon versus several ships full of murdering machines. Both terrified him out of his mind. It was difficult to say.

"No, sir, but there are Armada ships, and they're not just passing us by. They've stopped, right before the entrance to the channel."

"Are they planning entry?"

"Sir, truthfully, I don't know – "

"Of course not, never mind that," Hunter quickly said, muttering to himself – of course the boy didn't know. A spyglass couldn't pick up a clockwork's _motivations_ from thousands of yards away. "How many?"

"Five, sir," said the scout.

Hunter thought for a moment, crossing his arms to keep his hands from shaking.

"Rouse every witchdoctor in the fleet," he said, twisting his head to snap over his shoulder as he began to sprint away, "and tell them to report to the outer deck, _at once!"_

"Aye-aye, sir," said the scout, white with fear, and he ran off.

Hunter alerted as many as he could find along the way – many of them were below decks and did not hesitate to leap up and join him, staves in hand, but there were also an alarming number of them that were injured and unable to do so. Behind him, he could hear the clustered footsteps of the witchdoctors that the scout must have alerted, rushing to catch up with him now.

In less than a minute, the crowd was gathered on the outer deck – the general term that the survivors used to refer to the ship that was the closest to the entrance. They treated the entire floating fleet as a single ship sometimes, they operated as one anyways.

"Keep your voices down – not a _single_ sound is to come out of any of you!" Hunter hissed, his voice quiet yet penetrating enough to carry to each of them effectively.

"There are five ships that may be entering the channel at any moment now. We have to shield ourselves with an illusion – a combined illusion."

They took it all in, eyes wide and attentive.

" _Is that understood?"_

Nods. They had taken his order to silence quite literally. Within seconds they had dispersed, lining up along the railing of the outer deck and extending down the outermost edges of the stagnant fleet.

Hunter knew that they would take his cues for this, they had drilled it before – and he raised the palm of his right hand, staff clenched in his left. They mirrored his movements. When he closed his eyes, concentrated his energy, and spoke the otherworldly incantation of illusion, deceit, and invisibility, they did the same, in direct tandem with their leader.

Slowly, a translucent bubble began to form, their palms acting as source points, the white light connecting together and expanding continuously to form a protective, dome-shaped shield that spanned the lateral width of the fleet, hiding them from the view of the approaching Armada ships.

The first one began to enter the channel, but only ever so slightly.

They woud not suddenly rush in, Hunter was certain of that. If they saw that to their knowledge, there were no ships within the cove, then they would turn back, as the position they were currently in would allow the survivors, who were supposedly still out within the skyway, would easily be able to trap them in.

It was perfect, Hunter thought, and hoped that things would go according to plan quickly, because as skilled as his band of witchdoctors were, holding up a shield this large required an enormous amount of energy. Already, he could feel himself wilting.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of the witchdoctors – the fourth one to his left – slump down onto the deck in a dead faint. He tried not to visibly react. If the others saw him panicking, it would only be a matter of time before they would, just like they had done for the past few months, follow as well.

Now the pain started and Hunter had to bite down on his lips to hold in a scream – they could not afford to make a sound.

At the front of the channel, the bow of the very first Armada frigate became visible, proceeding with caution.

Hold steady, Hunter wanted to yell, but he couldn't, not without giving away their position and their lives – he had to remain silent, _they_ had to remain silent.

Another thud told him that exhaustion had claimed one more. The privateers, the healers, they were already exhausted, overwhelmed with the exponentially increasing number of those that were sick and wounded and dying.

Rations were running low.

They _couldn't_ die here – they simply had to survive, they _had_ to, they had made contact with Benjamin Spinnaker and his guild and they were but a skyway apart but the relentless Armada patrols would not _let them pass!_

Hunter gritted his teeth and pushed onwards. He imagined the Captain of the Armada frigate coming to the railing, lifting his spyglass to his face (assuming that even the optical systems of the clockworks were not precise enough to see clearly at that far of a distance), seeing that there was in fact _nothing_ there, and –

As if on cue, the frigate slowly began to turn to the right, a full one-hundred-and-eighty degrees.

Nothing there.

There is nothing here, Hunter willed them to think, as if it would make any difference now.

More thuds, more witchdoctors collapsing, unmoving, unresponsive, fatigued, but he did not dare to drop the shield until all five ships were completely out of sight. It would risk _all_ of their lives, if he did so now.

The stern of the very last ship had long since disappeared from the opening. He looked up towards the scout, his limited reserve of energy only allowing him to do just that.

"All clear, sir."

Hunter's lips were numb and he couldn't bring himself to form words. Instead, he dropped his arms limply down by his sides, feeling the adrenaline rush leave him all too soon, gripping the railing as he sank to his knees and then down on his side, the rough wood of the deck scraping against his hollowed cheek.

All around him, the witchdoctors of the fleet were in the very same condition as he was, if not worse.

He was considered one of, if not _the_ strongest witchdoctor aboard, next to Vadima herself, and if he was _this_ drained by merely hiding, there was no telling what would become of the rest of them.

Already, their food supply was dangerously low.

If they had been any weaker, Hunter thought to himself, the ones unconscious, unmoving but breathing, would be dead, more tick marks on the casualty list.

He laid there on the deck for a few minutes more. His body wouldn't have responded to his commands to move, even if he had tried. It was only when the feeling began to finally return to his fingers and toes, to his limbs and his head, that he dared to wiggle himself, making sure he had full use of everything, before standing, dragging himself to his feet all while keeping hold on the creaking railing.

That was close.

Too close, and he could no longer sit and watch those who had remained so strong to be stripped of their energy and flesh and life by the cruel ticking of time.

Forcing himself forwards, Hunter stumbled across the deck and over his own feet, crossing gangplanks and railings, his shoulder clipping into numerous masts and he probably now had several splinters from where he had fallen but at this moment he didn't mind, he didn't care. He had to get to Vadima.

Hunter entered Vadima's cabin without so much as a warning knock, but she was not startled, instead looking up as if she had expected him all along.

"I have just heard," she said, in her thick, heavy voice, "about the threat. What news of it?"

Hunter bit his lip, trying to keep himself from exploding in fury.

 _We almost died, all of us!_

"We shielded ourselves. Myself and the witchdoctors – they've gone now," said Hunter, "but Madame, I _insist,_ we can't keep hiding."

Vadima sighed and stood, her pointed nails scraping over the wood of the chair armrests as she lifted herself from it. Not this again, he imagined her saying, but not out loud, she still had some tact left.

"Rations are low. If we don't attack _now,_ we'll starve within _months!"_

"Months are _time,_ Hunter. We have _time,_ you must remember."

" _TIME?!"_

His vision was red and he no longer even bothered trying to control himself – fury had consumed him in his entirety. He was the _leader_ of these people, these desperate people, with so many of them wounded and so many of them sick as well. Five of the healers had died already, in the midst of treating others – they had exerted the final drops of their energy in a frantic attempt to give health to another, and lost their lives because of it.

Because they could not become strong again in time before another would need them desperately again.

"We've already been trapped in here for months, and it seems like so short of a time – if we continue to wait, they'll find us – they'll _find_ us eventually, Madame, _please!"_

" _Collect yourself, Hunter Chamberlain,"_ she hissed, her eyes narrowing. "You are a _leader_ now. And you _cannot_ be seen in a state of panic, not when so many others look to you as a source of calm."

"And let them _die_ while I'm at it?!"

Vadima paused at this, considering.

"It will only be for a short while longer," she said, as nonchalantly as if all was well with the world, "and then we will be ready."

"And how long, Madame," Hunter said, swallowing hard as tears formed in his eyes – he was powerless here. So many were going to die. So many were going to starve to death, so many were going to pass in the delirium of fever, leaving behind loved ones, children. "How _long_ will that be…?"

His breath caught in his throat and he closed his eyes, jaw set, furious at the tears slowly trailing down his thinned face for betraying him. Vadima's expression softened.

She came close to him, putting a hand on his shoulder and squeezing gently, like a mother trying to comfort one of her own.

"You wait," she said, "you see."

* * *

 **I hope you enjoyed, and be sure to leave a review!**

 **\- Severina**


	45. Chapter 45

**Chapter 45: Nightmares and Nostalgia**

Glass container in hand, Jewel squeezed through the hallway leading back up to the main deck, her footsteps nearly silent save for the rustling of her thick silk jacket. She had gotten used to the flavorless paste by now, the way it stuck to the roof of her mouth and smelled faintly of molten parchment.

It certainly was better than feeling her undersized guts churn about within her own body.

She scraped up the edge of the adhesive holding the halves of the glass container together with her nail and then collided shoulders, rather roughly, with someone.

"Ow – sorry."

"Don't be. You okay?" She looked up.

It was Andrew, the musketeer – Zachary's close friend. They were rarely seen apart, except for occasional moments, such as now. Jewel shrugged in response to his question, remaining indifferent, as one does after being ripped apart and bled to death only to be forcibly yanked back into another life.

"If you have a minute, I've got to talk with you about something – it's pretty important."

"I'm listening," said Jewel, looking evenly at him. "What is it."

"Um – not _here."_

Andrew looked around, nervously, looking for unwelcome ears. The crew of this ship was loyal, no doubt, but these matters were personal and it was best to involve only those necessary. "Follow me. We'll go to my cabin."

Jewel followed him up with the very same indifference, her footsteps silent on the wooden planks of the lower deck. Andrew led her out of Zachary's "lair" – that was what they had affectionately taken to calling that particular area – and to his own cabin, which was a minute's walk away. Things often were, on ships, although Jewel was not used to sailing in quarters _this_ cramped. Sydney had a galleon – an _entire_ galleon that could fit hundreds if she chose. But her crew consisted of _three._ Hence, almost all of the spare chambers and quarters were used for storage.

This was not the case here, where the sounds of welding and soldering and vague experimentation could be heard behind every door she passed.

Andrew pulled a ring of rusty keys out of his coat pocket – Jewel crinkled her nose at how dusty and unkempt the garment was – and unlocked the door, pushing it open and stepping back to make way for Jewel to enter, but he remained in the doorway. She turned and stared. He didn't move.

"Well?" said Jewel, "Aren't you going to come in? You're just kind of… _standing there,_ really."

Andrew pressed his lips together, as if deep in thought.

"I'll be back."

Without another word, Andrew stepped back and closed the door, leaving it unlocked still but shutting Jewel in nevertheless. After remaining there for several minutes, silently, to make sure that she would not try to follow, he quietly strode away. His destination this time was the Captain's cabin, where Benjamin would undoubtedly be, trying to rationalize and reason his way out of this, just like he always was.

Andrew wasn't so sure that his cousin's infallible methods would serve successful again this time. They had resurrected corpses and brought aboard and renegade clockwork – _reason_ was seldom present ever since they had set foot on the Isle.

He rapped the door urgently with his knuckles and then shifted back onto his heels, waiting.

There was a shuffling noise, approaching, getting closer.

The door opened and Benjamin's head emerged.

"Andrew? What is it?"

Andrew gaped. He had completely forgotten what he was going to say, he had forgotten about Jewel and why he had come up here in the first place. Benjamin looked absolutely _exhausted._

"Um. You look terrible."

Benjamin rolled his eyes.

"How relevant. Now – "

"I managed to get Jewel in my cabin. I told her that we wanted to ask her a few questions and she agreed. She's still there now – I'll go get her, if you're – "

"No!" Benjamin yelled, the sound clipped into a hiss. _"No._ I'll come down."

"But isn't it a _courtesy_ to invite her into the Captain's – "

"Andrew!"

Andrew shut up.

"Andrew, she _can't know_ about Quintus. Not yet. Not now, at least." That was a valid point. When Samantha had first seen Quintus, the both of them had very nearly killed one another if it hadn't been for Benjamin's own intervention.

"She knows he killed Sam."

Shit, Benjamin thought. Shit.

"But not that he's aboard," Andrew quickly added. Zachary had told him everything shortly after Jewel had been revived, while he was bedridden and barely had the strength to lift his own arm.

She knew Quintus as the _thing_ that killed her best friend, and if she were to find out that he was in fact _aboard_ the same ship that she was, it was not likely that she would take it well.

"Speaking of Quintus," Andrew said, and left the sentence hanging there. It was a question in itself. Last he had heard, the clockwork musketeer had gone into a catatonic state, refusing to listen to anything that Benjamin had to say, and insisting only to see his commander.

"Well, I told him that Sydney's dead."

Andrew raised an eyebrow.

"…and he didn't take it well. I have to keep him locked in my cabin." Benjamin cast an uneasy glance back at the door, pressing his lips together.

"Does he try to escape?"

"No, he doesn't – he just _sits_ there and stares at me. And then when I look up he says that he needs to see Sydney, and I refuse and it distresses him and he gets panicked," Benjamin recited – he had seen this happen every single day. It was like routine. A terrible, horrible, twisted routine. He never thought in a million years that he would ever feel pity for a clockwork, but _this_ had proved him horribly wrong.

Andrew paused, lost in thought. A crease appeared between his eyebrows.

"Must be awful, really," he said, "that's all he knows how to do. Follow Sydney's orders. It's like suddenly forgetting how to breathe."

Benjamin was taken aback. He had never thought of it in that context before, not _quite_ in this way. Suffocating. It _was_ awful, yes indeed, it _was_ awful to cut his puppet strings and leave the musketeer to blindly stumble around in the dark with no sense of direction or bearing or purpose.

Briefly, Benjamin wondered how he would react to existing in such a state. He determined that he would go insane, very, very quickly.

Andrew didn't fully understand, and Benjamin hadn't expected him to – this was _impossible_ to understand, Quintus' reactions, his unsteady degeneration. Before they had found him, neither of them would have ever expected a clockwork soldier to display anything even remotely resembling human emotions. Quintus had surprised them and shocked them in every way, and that, Benjamin knew, would not be stopping any time soon.

* * *

Inside of Andrew's cabin, Jewel carefully prowled about, placing one foot down in front of the other without a sound. Like a panther, almost.

She didn't do so by choice, however. Andrew, although he was an organized person by nature, had let his rigid routine slip ever since life on the ship had received a double dose of chaos, and half-finished machines and projects and weapons and other structures of God-knows-what covered nearly every square inch of space on the deck.

There was barely any room to even stand still, let alone move about, but that hadn't stopped Jewel from exploring a little. She was curious, to say the least, as to what these devices were, and all about the individual who assembled them.

She was bending dangerously close to what she was pretty sure was a half-finished explosive device when there was a knock on the door. It swung open not even a second later and she straightened herself up, feeling slightly like a child caught with their hand in the biscuit tin even though the expression on Andrew's face told her that he had seen nothing and was much too preoccupied with not tripping over himself.

He waddled awkwardly in, shifting aside pieces of scrap metal and clumps of gears to make room for Benjamin, who squeezed himself in before shutting the door.

"Um, hello," Andrew said awkwardly.

Jewel raised her eyebrows.

"To what do I owe the _pleasure,_ gentlemen?"

Benjamin and Andrew exchanged uneasy glances with each other, unsure of whether her comment was intended to sting or to lighten the mood.

"Oh, nothing much," Benjamin said, "Just a few short questions that need answering. You'll want to sit down."

Jewel looked around the room. She could see nowhere convenient to do so. Noticing this, Andrew leapt over a particularly large pile of wreckage, clearing it like an athlete's hurdle as he yanked a piece of tarpaulin away, hauling down a pile of dusty tools and metal bars with it. There was a single, pathetically rickety wooden chair underneath it all. Andrew dusted it off, looking thoroughly flustered.

Jewel, however, was more amused than anything, and pulled it over to herself before settling into it, a small smile twitching at the corners of her thin lips.

"Very hospitable. Now, you were saying?"

Andrew bit his lip. He didn't want to be the one to say this, especially after she had recovered her mood and her spirits so quickly. He shot a pleading glance at Benjamin.

"We need you to tell us what happened to Sydney. From the beginning." Benjamin said it carefully, cautiously – he saw Jewel's face fall abruptly.

"To…to Sydney…?"

Her face drained of color.

Sydney. The woman that had pinned her down, that tore her apart with her bare hands and nails.

"Yes. How she changed. How she became…"

 _That thing._

Jewel swallowed hard.

"I-is this…is this entirely necessary, Benjamin? I know that – "

"I'm sorry, but it really is. It's imperative. The survivors in Skull Island – they're depending on us."

This brought new weight, some more levity to the table, and Jewel crossed her arms, considering. At last, she decided to speak – although it did not come easy.

"I saw her change after Quintus woke up."

"Woke up?"

"I don't know how it happened. We were fighting off voidfish on deck, and when that was said and done she went back to her cabin and there he _was._ Just _standing there."_

"And that was out of the norm?"

"She'd killed him – or so we thought. He attacked us first, and Sam knocked him out. Sydney dragged him back, just to hide the evidence, but then she must have done _something,_ and – "

"And he was reborn under her command."

"I guess you…I guess you could _say_ it that way," Jewel said, "He called her "Commander" and followed her orders."

"And then?"

"And then," Jewel said, blinking quickly and turning slightly away so that she was no longer directly facing them, "she started acting strange. She always used to stay up late until the courses for the next several weeks was plotted, but she would at least get _some_ sleep. After Quintus woke up, she never slept at all. I never saw her put her head down, not once, and she had trouble keeping her eyes open at the wheel."

"And you have no idea why?"

"No. I didn't know. I still don't know. My guess is that it had something to do with her _puppet,"_ Jewel spat, "But there's no way to be sure. It's not exactly like I can _ask_ her."

That was true.

Jewel's expression turned sour and dark.

"Then it was like she stopped caring about us. When she wasn't plotting the course and adjusting for winds, she was in her cabin, always with Quintus. _Always._ She used to come down for meals with us, she used to talk with us below decks. It was like she got sick of us."

Jewel blinked quickly. She didn't bother to hold back the single tear that trailed down her cheek, followed by another and then another. She was too tired to fight her grief at this point, after so much of it.

"We attacked Cadiz. Sam took down Kane. Then we went back and I saw blood under her door and there was…there was _another_ clockwork inside," Jewel continued, now shaking visibly. Benjamin and Andrew began to connect the dots. Caerulus, the other officer, the one that bled out. "Of course, I was scared – she was hiding things from us, she was talking about building an army of _machines,_ and then she had us locked up - !"

Jewel's voice broke and she clenched the splintering armrests of the chair, ignoring the little bouts of stabbing pain as the wooden shards dug into her flesh. The pain of recalling how her Captain had turned on her was far greater.

"A-and, I, I…I thought," Jewel stammered, her lithe form trembling as she struggled to hold back the emotional maelstrom that was threatening to burst forth, "I t-thought t-that I could _stop her,_ and…!"

And she killed me. She ripped me apart.

Jewel broke down altogether, curling in on herself, hunched over in the little chair and sobbing and screaming as the grief of betrayal finally caught up with her.

"Stay with her," Benjamin told Andrew, "I'll be back soon."

Andrew paled. Stay with her? In _this_ state?! Why, he'd do more harm than good –

But the door had already shut again and Benjamin was gone. Andrew pursed his lips and tried to make himself as invisible as possible. The woman deserved to be allowed to grieve, like anyone would if they were in her situation.

Benjamin did indeed return soon, just like he had promised, with Samantha in tow. She twisted herself sideways as she entered to avoid slamming her shoulders into the doorframe. Upon seeing her friend, curled up and wracked with that same raw grief that she too still felt traces of, her face fell.

"What – "

"She's just remembering," Benjamin explained. "She told us her story. Her view of things."

And the recollection was painful beyond imagination, they could all see that now.

"You should take her somewhere, calm her down. We can't help much." Benjamin lowered his eyes apologetically. He genuinely wished that there was _something_ he could do to help ease the burn.

"Thank you anyways," Samantha said, smiling sadly. She scooted a little closer to Jewel, holding out her hand.

"I'm here, Jewel, I'm here. Come on," she said, her voice smooth and soothing, "it's all right now."

Standing shakily, Jewel stumbled forwards and Samantha kept a grip on her shoulder, leading her out of the room and away. They went up, out of the berths and to the lower gun deck, where it was completely devoid of any other human activity. Cannons waited silently, roped into place.

They settled into the little space between two twelve-pounders and Jewel leaned against Samantha, still crying. Samantha hugged her to her chest, biting back tears of her own.

"I-I _n-never thought…!"_

"Me neither, Jewel, me neither. No one could have seen it coming."

Even now, Quintus' words had echoed in her head – that _if it had not been for your failure, my Commander would not have been reduced to this state!_ Samantha's reassuring words were for her as much as they were for Jewel, they both desperately needed it.

"She wasn't like this before," Jewel said, sniffling – she had calmed down. "She wasn't like this. She was so different."

"Yeah," Samantha said, wistfully. How right she was. She still remembered seeing Sydney smile, and how the last time she had ever seen Sydney truly and genuinely happy was when she had climbed up the rigging to the crow's nest, to the masts and let the wind blow through her hair.

A Captain, at home on her ship. That's what she was and that's all she was.

But there was more to her, a nastier, uglier side that reared its head, that took over her and never let go.

Samantha swallowed hard.

"Jewel, come with me."

They went again to Zachary's cabins, ones that would have originally been intended for naval officers but were taken up by corpses and chemicals in lieu of those. Under the furthest one, through the crack between the base of the door and the deck, the faint green glow could still be seen, strong and steady as ever.

"I showed you this before," Samantha said, and she had.

"Yes. I remember. The day I came back."

A heavy silence settled between them, both of them thinking the same thing but neither of them voicing it.

"They're going to bring her back, Jewel."

" _WHAT?!"_

" _JEWEL!"_ Samantha shrieked, and Jewel quieted, although the sheer terror, the fear – it did not leave her eyes. "They're – Zachary, that is – is going to _fix_ her. She'll be back to normal again, when she wakes up!"

"You mean – "

"That she'll be _okay,_ Jewel."

"Sam, she's a…a _madwoman…!"_ Jewel lowered her voice abruptly, flinching a little at her own words. "You saw what she…what she _did!"_

"But that's the _point,"_ Samantha said, "her soul wasn't corrupt – it was her mind. She was sick."

"If you mean she was _psychopathic,_ then I follow," Jewel scathed.

"You _saw_ her! She never wanted this, she'd always say, and she was mad, she was _insane!"_

"Then – "

"And what Zachary _does,_ Jewel, is that he brings her soul back – and she's capable of good. She's capable of being caring and wonderful, like she was when you first met us! _That_ Sydney is going to come back to us."

Samantha's expression hardened. " _That_ Sydney. Not the _monster_ that she became."

But as sure as she tried to make herself seem, Samantha was not quite certain of her own words herself.

* * *

 **I hope you enjoyed, and do be sure to leave a review!**

 **\- Severina**


	46. Chapter 46

**Chapter 46: Pirates to Puppeteers**

Zachary had only started to walk regularly again about four days ago, and it still was taxing, but he no longer felt faint after every twenty seconds and that was certainly something.

Holding onto the edge of his worktable with one hand, Zachary carefully dusted off the glass beakers and vials, a small cloud of dust slowly spiraling up into the air. He had missed this, and being confined to his bed for long periods of time had been like torture. Not that Samantha's food had been _bad,_ it was anything but – yet, he felt like he wanted to explode after being forced to stay stationary for so long.

To one side of the table, there was a small stack of those little glass containers containing the paste that Jewel choked down to keep herself alive. Once he had figured out the equations and the construction of the strange substance, making it regularly had been simple work, even with his standing time having been so limited until now.

He felt the first spells of dizziness come on – it had been half an hour since he last stood up – and shook his head furiously, as if trying to fling off the fatigue.

His eyelids were heavy. How annoying, he thought.

There was a knock on the door and he jumped, although the short burst of adrenaline that resulted was enough to finally pump some energy back into him.

"I'm in here."

"Yeah, I _know,"_ Andrew replied sarcastically, his voice muffled by the door. "I'm talking about me. You know. If I can come in without accidentally _exploding."_

Zachary grinned. There was his friend, his cynical, sarcastic friend whose voice he had missed all those days that he was delirious with fever.

"You're good!" He called back. "You won't die – probably!"

Andrew opened the door, grinning widely. His face and his glasses were covered in soot and gunpowder – he had been working. Zachary didn't mind, however, leaping over to him and thumping him on the back. Andrew coughed from the force of it.

" _Damn,_ you got strong again fast," he said, blinking quickly. "Good."

Zachary picked up on the hidden meaning.

"All right. What'd I miss?" He braced himself for the tsunami of information and contradictions that was bound to hit him right about now.

Andrew grimaced.

"Um. A lot. We've got a new plan."

"Oh, you made contact with Hunter? Are we gonna chase them off the island?"

"Yes and no," Andrew replied, trying to think ahead – he could barely understand it himself, and if he didn't think first, Zachary wouldn't have a hope of comprehending it. "We've discovered something new – about how Sydney managed to take control of Quintus."

"Really?" Zachary said excitedly, his voice carrying an uncharacteristic amount of energy as he shakily sat down on the bed. He had been on his feet for longer than before, this was expected, but he was still disappointed by his own limitations nevertheless.

"At least we think we have. Sam and Jewel's stories, they line up – she apparently put her _blood_ inside of them. And then – for some reason – they _followed_ her."

If he had been explaining this to anybody other than Zachary Zest, then they would have instantly stormed out in indignation or denounced Andrew's own credibility and intelligence. But he _was_ explaining this to Zachary and Zachary, being quite different from most others of his species, did not doubt him for a second.

Instead, he only wanted to understand further, he wanted to know more. That was the scientist part of him speaking, most likely.

"She did that to all of them?"

"Well, they all ended up under her _command."_ Andrew thought about the huge masses of clockwork soldiers that he had seen patrolling the tunnels, and how many times she would have had to cut open her wrists to convert them all. Involuntarily, he shivered a little.

It was too many to be even remotely comfortable for him to contemplate.

"And they'll follow her, because her blood's in their veins – that's how it works, that's how they can tell an imposter from their _true_ commander!"

Zachary pressed his lips together. He wasn't sure he liked where this was going.

"We have her body, Zachary – what if _you –_ "

"Not a _chance!"_ Zachary cut him off, his whisper seeming louder than all of Andrew's excited yelps put together. This wasn't what Andrew had expected at all and he froze in place, taken aback.

"Not a…Zachary, is there – "

"Something wrong with reviving the dead? Yes, something is _very_ wrong with that!"

He had willingly brought back Samantha and Jewel because they did not deserve to die, they did not deserve to suffer and they did not deserve the pain that had been relentlessly pelted down at them during their last days and weeks and months of life. Sydney had turned her back on them long ago.

"I can't revive her. Not her. Not Sydney."

Andrew looked defeated – so he _had_ expected this – but still, he pressed on, persistent as ever.

"Why not?" Andrew asked, like a child.

"Because," Zachary said, pressing his fingertips to his temples to ward off the oncoming headache, "she's a _madwoman._ Think about what she _did_ when she was alive, Andrew!"

Andrew swallowed. Zachary was right.

"She…she killed people."

"Yes, she did – she killed her _best friends._ No decent human being _does_ something as awful as that. She wanted power, and everything else was just a means to her end."

As much as Andrew did not want to admit it, there was no refuting that. Sydney had indeed been power hungry, almost like Napolenguin himself, and was willing to sacrifice her friends, her relationships, her health, her life, all for her perfect power.

"But that was because she lost her mind," Andrew said stupidly. He didn't know what had happened – maybe she had been a devil at heart, maybe her mind had been taken hold of by some awful self-destroying parasite. Zachary seemed to give his words more merit than they deserved.

"So you think I can just _leave_ that part of her behind?" Zachary spluttered indignantly, throwing his hands in the air in exasperation.

"Well, can't you?" Andrew said indifferently. He knew next to nothing about his friend's visits to the other realms, but he had at least learned, by now, that nothing was impossible. "And if madness is a condition that's brought about, wouldn't your magic have healed her of it?"

He was speaking half off of hope by now. There was no definite way of knowing.

And yet again, Zachary seemed to take this a touch too literally. He looked off into the distance, as he always did when thinking hard.

"Maybe," said Zachary. He wasn't certain of anything – he had only retrieved those passed into the spirit realm twice, and both of them still suffered from the grief they carried before they were killed.

However, an illness of the mind, he knew, did not give rise to different motives, nor did it change the true character of a person.

"Do you think she was terrible, Andrew?"

"Well, I - ! Her actions, yes, of course – "

"Deep down, I mean," Zachary clarified, "do you think she was a terrible person at heart, before she went insane?"

Andrew nibbled at the drying skin on the edges of his lips. Zachary did have a fair point, and now he was stuck in somewhat of a paradox. Her actions were unforgivable.

 _But her motives?_

"Dead men tell no tales," Andrew accidentally said out loud, but it somehow made sense to Zachary nevertheless.

"I guess you're right. We'll never know why – not unless we bring her back. Quintus won't talk, Benjamin's told me that too, so the only one who would know otherwise is _her."_

But was the risk worth taking, was the unanswered question hanging between them now. Would her mind heal with the rest of her body? Would she, upon waking, destroy every living creature in sight and take up her iron grip on the troops of the tunnels?

If it worked, the guild would have an entire legion of armada clockworks at their own disposal.

If it failed, they would have a crazed murderer aboard their ship.

"And what about Sam and Jewel?" Zachary said, bringing Andrew back into reality with a harsh metaphorical slap, "She killed one of them indirectly and another with her bare hands. You saw how they – just how they _reacted,_ when they knew that her _corpse_ was on board…"

Zachary thought about the chaos, the fear, the anger and the sadness that would consume them if they were to see their mad Captain risen again and he shivered.

"We can't _do_ that to them, Andrew. Not after all they've been through."

Andrew was stunned. Clearly, he hadn't thought of this before – his only goal, his only mindset was to gain the usage of Sydney's clockwork soldiers.

 _As Andrew does,_ Zachary internally reminded himself – his friend was not intentionally insensitive, it was just one of the things that he had learned to deal with over the years. His plan had not, clearly, gone the way he anticipated.

He opened his mouth, as if he was going to say something, and then closed it again. He took off his glasses and then put them back on. He cleared his throat. Zachary knew – Andrew was completely and utterly lost for words.

With the _I'll have to think over this_ implied in the silence between them, Andrew quickly turned on his heel and marched out of the room. A new plan was needed, even though neither of them could see any clear alternative at the moment. The door squeaked on its hinges as it slowly swung the rest of the way open, and from across the hall, Zachary could see the green glow that emanated from the cramped room.

She – Sydney – had been left in there for weeks. His idea to contain his own energy within the room, to do its work while he regained his physical strength, was ingenious – but up until now he had not been strong enough to enter, to see whether his plan, his idea and design, had actually worked.

Steeling himself, Zachary approached the door and gripped the handle, trying in vain to still the shaking of his arm. He did not know whether it was out of nervousness or exhaustion or fear or a combination of them all. He pushed the door open and stepped inside.

For some reason, he had closed his eyes the instant the door had opened, feeling around blindly for the frame and the walls as he pulled himself through, closing the door behind him and sealing himself in. Slowly, he opened his eyes, squinting against the harsh green glow which seemed to come from everywhere all at once, having no visible source even though its presence was undeniable.

He was standing in front of the table that they had laid her on, his hips just touching the edge.

Before him, Sydney was suspended in midair.

Having _just_ only realized that, it was all Zachary could do to bite his tongue and just barely refrain from screaming in shock and terror before he realized that she was still just as prone, as unmoving, as dead as before.

However, her flesh was no longer blackened and decayed to the point of collapse, and her nails had seemed to grow back overnight, no blood under the strong-again enamel.

And her face –

Her face had healed as well, and she looked just as alive as Benjamin most likely remembered her. No exposed muscle or wriggling maggots – the spell had evicted them all, and their dried-out corpses littered the deck around Zachary's feet. But he paid no mind, too absorbed in the miraculous results of his work.

Just as he had done before, Zachary inspected his progress, pulling back her eyelids and observing how they had reformed but still had a ways go to, prodding and palpating her flesh and joints in different areas of her body to assess exactly _how_ much longer it would be until she would walk among them again.

Not long at all, he concluded.

* * *

 **I hope you enjoyed, and do be sure to leave a review!**

 **\- Severina**


	47. Chapter 47

**Chapter 47: The Last Straw**

Hunter scraped up the last bits of ink in the inkwell and clenched the quill pen so tightly that he was almost certain that it would snap.

He could nearly taste bitterness in his mouth as he set the ship's log on the desk within his cabin and opened the dusty, yet ink-soaked pages and turned to one of the few blank ones left, near the very back.

 _24 more dead,_ Hunter wrote, his lip curling in disgust – disgust at himself. It was his fault, he was certain – he was in charge of these people, they looked to him for guidance, for orders, for survival, and now, what little rations remained within the stagnant flotilla had become infested by weevils and other such pests.

 _And 41 ill._

Low rations meant weakened health, meant the spread of illness among a cluster of closely confined sailors who did not exactly have the means to maintain stringent hygiene. It was a recipe for disaster that was staring him full in the face, wearing an arrogantly persistent smirk that he just could _not_ slap away.

He drew a horizontal line across the page and copied down the results of the weekly inventory – they were dismal, as usual, if not even more so now. Hunter's heart thundered in his chest – they were all depending on him to _do something,_ and yet he was powerless now.

Frustrated, Hunter stood, toppling his chair over behind him in the process as he paced the deck. He wished he could do more. He wished he was like Zachary – the young man, barely of age, who had showed up at his door just hours before Prima had rained hellfire down upon the island, who could perform strange magic that healed, that closed wounds and restored flesh more effortlessly than any privateer.

Zachary was, in fact, just a skyway away – so close, yet so far. The passage between him and tradewinds was blocked by a dozen Armada ships, at least.

Hunter shook his head and stepped out of the cabin and onto the quarterdeck. The wind stung his cheeks, but he didn't care. He turned immediately and crossed gangplank after gangplank, deck after deck, finally coming to the most isolated corner of the enormous floating mass before descending below decks. They had designated this poor ship as the sickbay, a hotbed of illnesses and festering wounds, constantly smelling of rot and sick.

A skinny woman, eyes glazed from exhaustion, pushed past him without so much as an apology, stumbling onto the deck and taking deep, gasping breaths as if she had just narrowly escaped drowning. She had not even noticed her leader's presence, and at once, Hunter understood.

She was one of the few privateers that remained.

A great number of them had succumbed to illness themselves, and she was one of the few that remained, working five times as hard in a futile effort to save as many as she could. Working herself to exhaustion, to death. The sight of it, the thought of it alone was almost enough to make Hunter turn back, afraid that he would display more weakness than was acceptable of the leader of a force this large, but in the end, he decided better against it.

Just at the base of the staircase, there was another privateer, slumped over and motionless, the shallow movement of his chest the only indication that he was still alive, having collapsed from exhaustion.

Hunter swallowed and carefully stepped over him, keeping his mind focused on what he came here to do. If these brave survivors were to die now, he would not allow them to die thinking that they had been forgotten, insignificant. It was the least he could do. His magic was not like Zachary's – he could split his own energy and revive an unconscious or exhausted person, yes, but he could not close wounds or banish gangrene and fever.

The guns had been completely removed in favor of clearing more space for countless rows of cots, each with an unfortunate soul lying within.

There was surprisingly little noise, for a sickbay, aside from the occasional cough or groan, it was nearly dead silent.

And then his ears picked up on a new sound, a steady thumping, the sound of a weight being passed over wood. He turned his head towards it.

On the floor was a woman, on her shaky hands and knees, dragging herself from end to end. Hunter's first thought was that she must be a patient, and at first moved to drag her back into bed, but then he stopped when he realized that she was raising herself up to the cot of another, linking her fingers and gasping with exertion as she channeled her energy into the sick man.

Another privateer, her face thin and ghastly, her dark skin ashen.

The sound of her rattling breath told Hunter that she was just as near death as the others, and he felt his heart plummet. Her movements grew more frantic – she lugged herself to another corner, to a man hysterical with fever, the bedclothes soaked with sweat, and her eyes rolled back into her head as she rationed out a little bit more of her dwindling energy.

It did little, Hunter could tell – as a witchdoctor, he could sense the intensity of the energy, the mojo within others, and a chill ran down his spine as he realized that half of the pirates in the cots were corpses, and had been for quite a while. He was suddenly very grateful that it was dark here, below decks, and that those immediately close to him were still living.

Still living – just _barely,_ though, he realized, just in time to sense a young woman somewhere behind him heave her final breath and then go still, her energy vanishing into the air along with her soul.

The privateer was brave, she had not yet lost hope – she was still clinging to the mentality, the mindset that she alone would help these people –

Or she would die trying.

"Miss," Hunter began, his voice shaky as she approached her, "please, you're exhausted. You're sick, just as much as – "

But he stopped when he realized that she was hearing none of it, instead just crawling across the deck again. She was giving little pinches of her energy here and there, to no avail – and intensifying her own suffering.

"Listen to me," Hunter pleaded.

She was going to die, and it would be all his fault.

" _Listen to me!"_ He bellowed, and bolted towards her, grabbing her shoulders and pulling her to her feet, his grip fumbling as he clenched empty fabric, her arm doing hardly anything to fill out the sleeve of her jacket. She blinked numbly and then shook him off, the impact that her knees took when she fell back to the floor not seeming to affect her at all.

She was moving frantically now, having finally become aware of Hunter's presence, and with a growing dread, he realized that this was the kind of selflessness, this was the kind of determination that no one could stop, that no force in this universe would stop.

Gripping the edge of another cot, she rose up on bony kneecaps. The man on the cot was dead. Her effort would be wasted, her _life –_

"It's no use," Hunter begged, "it's no use!" He tried to pull her away and was shoved back with an unimaginable force and he was instantly reminded of Dangler, possessing such power and drive within a wasted body. The golden glow faintly emanated from the woman's linked fingers, remaining still only for a couple of seconds before flickering out like a blown candle. The privateer gave a trembling gasp before crumpling to the floor. Hunter felt their energy drain – both of them, the woman and the man that she was trying to heal – completely, and he knew at once that they had died.

" _No!"_ He screamed, and vaulted over to her, turning her over onto her back and checking for a pulse, for breathing, for anything that would indicate that she still lived.

Nothing.

Desperation driving him, Hunter summoned every bit of his own energy and pressed his palms down onto her chest, channeling half of it into her – if he just _revived_ her, if he woke her up, like he had with Dangler –

 _It's okay, it's okay, it's all okay, it'll all be okay –_

But she did not respond and he was weakened, in the end, nothing had come out of it. Yet, that did not deter him from trying over and over, again and again.

He pressed his palms harder to her body with each successive attempt until he felt the woman's ribs snap beneath his hands, giving way to the furious force.

 _Can't be –_

But yet it was.

Slumping back, Hunter wheezed, his throat dried and his lungs burning.

He hadn't been able to save her, she didn't wake up – instead, she remained unmoving in front of him, the sickbay now just a little quieter than before.

So many souls gone, he thought, and numbly felt for something – the edge of a cot – to pull himself back to his feet.

Then the anger took over, slowly, as he realized what had happened – what he _could_ have done to stop this. If he had been more insistent with Vadima, if he had not backed down like a coward –

If they had _attacked_ and reclaimed the island again, they would not have died.

Blood rising to his face, Hunter stormed out of the sickbay, fighting back both his tears and the sudden urge to scream and rip apart anything and everything that he could reach out of pure, undiluted fury. His boots thumped on the deck as he crossed the ships, not even bothering to knock on the door to Vadima's cabin before he slammed it open, nearly wrenching it off of its hinges.

Vadima, sitting at her desk, calmly looked up. She appeared to be completely calm and poised, not at all rattled by Hunter's violent entrance.

"You are tired," she said, as if commenting on the weather.

"God, Madame, she's _dead –_ one of the last few privateers just _died_ in front of me, trying to heal one of the wounded men!" Hunter barked. He wasn't quite sure if his anger was directed more at Vadima or at himself, himself for not doing anything, for being so complacent and _careless_ with the lives of his followers - !

"Do you _hear_ me, Madame?! We waited. We _waited,_ and they're _dying!_ I could _feel_ them…!" Hunter stopped, his voice cracking and breaking off. There was nothing, _nothing_ in this entire spiral worse than feeling the colossal weight of his failure to protect and defend and provide.

Vadima stood and came around the desk slowly, the various layers of silk that made up her skirt swishing and sweeping like the elaborate feathers of a bird.

" _I hear you, child."_

Hunter looked up, distressed and wracked with anger, with grief, and with hopelessness that this might mean the _end_ for them – all of them.

"Then," Hunter said, swallowing, "we _must_ attack." He looked her straight in the eye now – there would be no compromise on his side anymore. They would set a date for the attack and they would follow through with it, either the Resistance would take the island back, or they would die trying. It was what his compatriots would want.

He could not say quite the same for himself. What he wanted was Dangler, and peace.

"Yes. It does look like it has come to that," Vadima said, resignedly, " and is all very well."

"Then _when?"_ Hunter demanded – although really, it was more of a plea than anything else. "It has to be determined, _now._ " It could not be right _away,_ of course, preparation would be inevitable, yet they could not wait for very long.

"I must have time," Vadima said, "to draw assistance from spirits – then, they lend me power."

That certainly made sense, and Hunter wondered if _this_ was why she had been prolonging their attack for so long – to make sure that when they did, it would not fail. It was rational, it was reasonable, it was exactly what he would expect a leader to do in a situation of crisis and once again he was reminded about how truly reckless he had been, urging an attack so early on into their period of hiding. Perhaps he was lucky that Vadima had warded them off –

 _Even_ though because of this prolonging, the privateers had all but worked themselves to extinction, disease and starvation was running rampant –

But in the end, they would have a _much_ higher chance of emerging victorious. Weighing one bunch of human souls against the next was not a burden that Hunter had agreed to carry, nor was it one that he had ever wanted to.

"Three weeks, Hunter. Then, _we take the island back."_

* * *

 **I hope you enjoyed, and be sure to leave a review!**

 **\- Severina**


	48. Chapter 48

**Chapter 48: Pyotr Jovanovich Snaps**

Morale had plunged to abysmal levels ever since Dangler had appeared again, and tensions were high ever since Decimus had overheard that encounter between the Captain, Vladimir, and Pyotr.

It was a miracle that the crew of the _Sapfir_ had been able to make any progress of a significant sort – but they had done it nevertheless. Silently, Decimus stood beside the deck railing, hands clasped behind his back. It was silent save for the sound of monotonous, rhythmic hammering, the thudding of the mallet being slammed.

The crew of the _Sapfir_ , save for Decimus himself – so that he could oversee the entire operation with mathematical certainty – was hard at work, assembling the chunks of wreckages and piles of driftwood that they had come across into reinforced layers of planks, which were then systematically lashed to the mast.

Vladimir was near him, a few feet off to his right – and he silently took note of the overall demeanor and mood of the crew, something that was rather difficult for a quantitative being such as himself to observe. It had become easier over time – as he had gotten accustomed to each individual, he had been able to at least understand some semblance of their behavior.

They were dejected – the crew was swimming in despair. For the past several weeks, months, even, they had only come across sparse wreckages, perhaps a plank or two here and there, but nothing substantial. What they did find, they shaped into reinforcing structures – such as they were doing now – and then these were used to reinforce the main-mast, which supported the turbine-like sail that allowed them to pitch vertically.

It was a crude mimicry of Valencian engineering and the designs of the Armada ships, all overseen by an actual Armada soldier, but it was the best chance that they had at survival. At first, not a single crewman had thought to waste it – but there were some who had lost hope, who had already accepted that they would spend the rest of their life down here, that they would die down here, either by starvation or by their own hand.

Decimus himself had not fared any better.

Dangler, who had so far caused a wave of repulsive creatures to swarm the main deck as well as creating the illusion of fellow living beings – raising their hopes and then dashing them to the ground – was here. That was undeniable.

He had not heard her shrill, awful laughter ever since then, but whenever he even began to _remotely_ assume safety, his right hand would fly to the mark on his throat and that heightened alarm would take over again. It was like instinct, never letting him rest or forget or prioritize otherwise.

And then there was the disposition of the crew towards _him,_ and his degree of safety or danger aboard.

Even now, Decimus noticed, he still stood closer to Vladimir than to the rest of them – there was no telling how many of them wanted him gone or broken or terminated. It added to the overall possibility that he could very well be in danger, and it was only logical to infer that Vladimir was certainly not a part of that danger. If he did hold any malice towards Decimus, he would have left him lying in the snow rather than trying to patch up the immense stab wound that had almost fully sealed over by now.

"Captain," one of the Polarians said, "there's something off the starboard side."

Aleks rose from where he had knelt, brushing the sawdust off of his thick jacket. Motioning for the rest of the men to continue their work, he moved off, examining what had been pointed out.

Decimus looked in that general direction as well, scanning the endless blackness surrounding them on all sides until he found what the unseen man had spoken of, the outline of some enormous shape in the distance.

"It's flotsam, Captain, a wreckage," exclaimed the man standing next to Aleks.

Another Polarian leapt up to the helm and took the wheel, and the ship slowly changed course, heading straight alongside the enormous wreckage. They were apprehensive, Decimus could tell from their stiff, attentive postures.

The last time that they had approached a wreckage, the remaining crew had turned out to be an illusion, all conjured up by Decimus' own mad pursuer.

However, this time, that was not the case – when they first extended the hooks to haul pieces of the wreckage in, dragging it over the side and up onto the deck, the wood did not vanish into thin air, their fingers and tools did not glide through the image.

"It is enough," Decimus said, "to repair the rest of the mast."

He had not spoken loudly, but the crew had heard him nevertheless, and this sparked morale anew.

At once, there was quiet whispering in their language, there were exclamations of apprehension, of surprise, of excitement. Perhaps they would not be entirely unfounded this time.

Although the Captain retained a neutral expression, not daring to display a single crack in the mask, Decimus knew that he was thinking the same things as well. He was mortal. He was human. It was not exactly something that a living being could simply ignore.

Piece by piece, the crew hauled enormous bunches of the wreckage onto the deck, pushing aside what they were currently shaping to make room – the stack was immense, taller than Decimus himself, and countless times wider. It would be enough. Of that, he was mathematically certain, oh, he was _certain –_

It was a welcome relief, after the abyss had tossed the rules of reality about to the point where they were almost unrecognizable.

They had already recovered a large amount, nearly enough to cover the deck of the _Sapfir,_ and yet the wreckage was just as immense as before – more than enough _far_ more than enough.

Vladimir's lips were pressed tightly together, and even the Captain himself did not dare to speak. It was evident on each and every crew member's face – they wanted to, they _longed_ to cheer their victory, and yet not a single one of them dared to.

But they were clinging to it with tooth and nail. The hope of it, the possibility of it.

And that's when the whole thing disappeared, vanishing into traces of mist and smoke amongst thin, empty air, just like the last time. Decimus hardly had a moment to even process what had just occurred – and what it meant – before the laughing started again.

High and shrieking and grating, but there were no words this time, there were no promises of eternal sickened devotion or a relentless desire. There was only the laughter that was undoubtedly Dangler's.

"She's always been here," Decimus felt himself say, "she's always _been here!"_

"Playing tricks with us," he heard one of the Polarians growl. The anger, the indignation that was mixed in dangerously with a large amount of fear, was infectious. One of them had leapt up to the railing, brandishing his blade upwards and spitting out vile blasphemies in his native language, others were pacing, talking to themselves, whispering to each other in hushed voices in a last stretch to talk themselves down from a state of panic.

"Decimus," Vladimir was calling to him, but he could not respond, even when two firm hands were placed on his thin shoulders, even when he was roughly grabbed and shaken back and forth several times. _"Decimus!_ What's happened, what's going on?"

 _She's here she's here she's here she's HERE she's here she's here SHE'S HERE SHE'S HERE!_

The whimsical, dream-like laughter continued, and even the Captain's resolve began to crack, when suddenly, as if driven away by an instantaneous miracle, her torturous screeching was silenced, the overwhelming absence of sound more deafening than anything else.

No one dared to make any sudden moves. One by one, the scavengers turned to one another, exchanging quiet, rumbling whispers.

And then there was a wild bellow and some powerful force slammed directly into Decimus' side, sending him flying a good five feet across the deck before landing sprawled. He scrambled to get back to his feet, but there was something on top of him now, preventing him from doing so.

An arm closed around his throat and he thrashed about, his optical mechanisms quickly adjusting and rotating until the face of his attacker came back into focus.

Pyotr. It was not exactly a surprising realization, but that did not make the situation any less dismal – or dangerous, for that matter.

"Unhand me," he said, and received a sharp blow to the torso in response, directly over his stab wound. Vladimir shouted in fury and charged forwards, flinging himself on his shipmate and trying to pry Pyotr's grip away, but the enraged scavenger who was apparently set on murdering their clockwork stowaway had the upper hand and easily kicked him away.

"This," Pyotr growled, the veins on his scarred forehead rising in rage, "has gone on _long_ enough!"

Strangely enough, the crew seemed to listen. All of them had trained their eyes on the pair of them, Pyotr and Decimus – not daring to move, to speak, to object. Decimus did not know _what_ he had expected – in the end, they were human, mortal beings, and he was a machine made to kill such creatures as these.

Decimus was hanging by his throat, his thin hands curled around Pyotr's wrist in an attempt to alleviate some of the pressure. His feet were far off of the deck, and he could feel nothing but empty space below them.

"Belay that," the Captain roared, placing his hand on the handle of his cutlass, but Pyotr only bellowed louder, drowning out Aleks' voice and everyone else's as well.

"Don't you _see?!_ She's chased us across the Spiral, I'd wager she was the one who dragged us down into this damned _pit_ with that storm! And it's all for _him!"_ Pyotr shook Decimus' form violently by the throat, and he thrashed weakly for some small scrap of freedom.

"If it wasn't for him, she _never_ would have chased us!"

"Stand down," Aleks growled, "that's an _order!"_

"If it wasn't for him, we wouldn't be doomed to _die down here – "_

" _ENOUGH!"_

" _To die like DOGS!_ Just _think, Captain,_ for the sake of the crew – give him over to her, let him have what she _wants,_ let her leave us be, or are you so _blind_ as to – "

Aleks turned on his heel.

"You," he shouted, pointing to the first man immediately within his sight, and then another, and then another – "clap him in irons and take him below!"

"Why, Captain! I'm surprised at you," Pyotr snarled, "you'd turn on your own _kind!"_

"Mutinous bastard," Aleks seethed. "You have proven yourself unable to think for the good of any being save for yourself."

Pyotr glared, never once breaking eye contact with the Captain as one of the Polarians, obeying orders, wrenched his wrist from around Decimus' throat before wrestling his arms behind his back and locking them within the clutches of thick, unyielding manacles.

"There is no _place_ on my ship for cowards."

Aleks motioned to the men flanking the disheveled and infuriated Pyotr.

"Get him _out_ of my sight!"

He was hurriedly frog-marched away, although his screams, his shouts could still be heard.

"Take him, DAMN it all, TAKE HIM! JUST TAKE HIM AND GO, JUST _GO! PLEASE!"_

Silence hung over the deck. Vladimir pulled Decimus back to his feet. Decimus swayed, leaning limply against the Polarian while his senses swam and his sense of direction was ungracefully jostled about.

Pyotr had just pleaded with Dangler to take Decimus, to take her damned object of desire and _leave_ already, and now he realized –

"He's right."

"What?" Vladimir's brow creased.

"What he said. That she's following us. She is here because I am."

It sounded so matter-of-fact that Decimus could barely register that he had said it at all. It was true. Dangler was tormenting them to wear down the only sanctuary he had left, until they fell to pieces around him, until she would have him all to herself, forever and without an end.

"And you didn't think to inform us earlier?" The Captain raised an eyebrow. Although he hated to admit it, his reserves about the clockwork were beginning to resurface.

"I was not aware that she was here."

"You – "

"Because she is dead," Decimus said. And she was indeed dead, her ashes scattered to the winds and the waters of the Isle of Doom.

He did not dare to say any more. Already, they were doubting him – they were doubting their own safety, and he knew it. Perhaps some of them were contemplating the same thing that they had just thrown Pyotr into the brig for – sacrificing him, allowing her to take him so that she would cease her relentless, taunting torments.

"The dead cannot have what the living possess. They may try, but they will never be able to attain it," Aleks finally said after a pause that seemed to have stretched out for eons. His meaning was perfectly clear, however. No matter what illusions Dangler would resort to, no matter how terrifying she could become, they would not give in to her, they would not surrender to the ghastly apparition. Decimus' sanctuary remained standing, for now.

* * *

 **I hope you enjoyed, and do be sure to leave a review!**

 **\- Severina**


	49. Chapter 49

Chapter 49: The Failed Reach

It was to Zachary's extreme advantage that the repairs needed to restore Sydney Underhill's corpse to an almost lifelike quality were minimal. The room, as he had hoped, had done most of his work for him, and there were only a few areas of slight deterioration that had needed his minute attention.

When he had first entered the tiny, cramped room, Zachary wasn't even sure that he would come out alive. He had never used magic _this_ powerful on a living being before, and thus did not know what consequences it would have, but he hadn't cared in the moment.

As it turned out, his magic _was_ harmful to living, functioning, working beings – if he had been Andrew or Samantha, per se, he would have slipped into a comatose-like state, and there was no telling how to reverse _that._ It was magically induced, and hence would not be able to be cured using normal methods. Even the _normal_ methods were unreliable, then again.

The only reason that he was not dead now, he eventually discovered, was that he had built up an immunity of sorts to any malignant effects of his own magic. It was only logical – he was the source of it, after all. If he had been anybody else, however, to whom these strange spells were foreign, he would most likely be dead at the current moment.

Bending over the table, Zachary made sure that his work was complete.

He touched two fingers gently against the inside of her right elbow and pressed down firmly, feeling for the muscles and tendons and positions of the joints to clarify that everything was, in fact, there again.

Yes, there it was – the flesh did not fall apart beneath his fingers, and he could press the tendon without plying or snapping it.

She was here, and she was very nearly alive – it was as if she had simply closed her eyes, tired and exhausted of her own madness, appearing very much like, Zachary imagined, she had in her last few minutes of life – she was whole and complete again, yes, in the physical sense, but just barely.

Her skin was stretched taut over her ribs, blue veins ungainly against pallid tones. She was still as emaciated as she had driven herself to be, but she was whole again, and if Zachary succeeded in retrieving her, she would at least have a marginally functioning body.

But a _functioning_ body! Zachary could barely contain his excitement. If he had succeeded in repairing her mind as well – if he had been even somewhat right in that her soul carried none of her madness – then this could all be remedied.

Not to mention that it would be a breakthrough, something the likes of which had never been done before in human history, as far as he knew.

Hopping excitedly from one foot to the other, Zachary debated whether he should tell the others.

Surely, Jewel and Samantha would be glad to have their friend back – but he had thought this over before and ultimately determined that it would be best if they were kept away from their former Captain until it was confirmed that she was stable.

Carefully squeezing out of the door, Zachary mopped his brow – he had worked up a vigorous sweat, surprisingly – before making his way to Andrew's berth, where Benjamin usually was at this time of day.

He found them sitting cross-legged on the ground in a small area that was miraculously free of the clutter that plagued their surroundings. Spread across both of their laps was a single unrolled parchment, with the unmistakable thin lines of a prototype sketch crisscrossing over every inch.

"Um," Zachary said, not knowing what else to say. They both looked up, Andrew predictably startled by his sudden entry.

"Did something happen?" Benjamin asked. He started to clamber to his feet, but Zachary quickly flapped his hands, motioning to him that there was no need.

"No, no, just thought – I just thought to inform you. I'm going to try and waken her."

Benjamin stood up anyways. "It's nothing you need to worry about," exclaimed Zachary, not wanting the guild leader to be concerned on his behalf, as he had already done this twice before, but Benjamin just squeezed past him and started for the deck.

"It's not you, it's Quintus. I'll have to lock him in my cabin."

Ah, yes. The clockwork soldier that Zachary had all but forgotten about. He would be desperate to reach his commander again, surely, and the rumor of her possibly being alive again would cause nothing but commotion unless it was confirmed and certain.

Zachary stayed just below decks as Benjamin took care of the matter quickly and quietly. He doubted that Quintus had even noticed he was being bolted in – it did not make him any more of a prisoner than he already was.

Not to mention that even if he had the freedom to go about the ship, the clockwork would see no purpose in doing so without his orders and his purpose. Her blood still ran within him.

"Actuallly, Ben," Zachary said upon Benjamin's arrival below decks again, "if you and Andrew could join me, I could use your help."

Naturally, the both of them had jumped at the opportunity. They would never admit to it out loud, but they felt almost useless in comparison to the witchdoctor – he had already brought back two women from the dead.

Without objection, they followed Zachary as he tailed it back towards Sydney's room and then halted just before opening the door.

"Stay here," he said, "and when I close the door, stand with your back against it. Don't open it unless I tell you to."

Benjamin and Andrew exchanged nervous glances.

"But what if you – "

"Then you definitely don't want to let her loose on the rest of the fleet, trust me."

He was right, of course, and they didn't disobey him in the end. Zachary almost felt bad for forcing them to stand against the door, feet planted and backs pressed in case the privateer, when revived, had indeed retained her madness.

There – he was ready.

Standing in front of the table now, staring at Sydney's skinny-but-whole body, her face as smooth and un-carved as it had been in life, Zachary knew that there was nothing more to do but to reach for her, to try and bring her back to the land of the living.

Sitting cross-legged on the single crate in the far corner of the chamber, Zachary closed his eyes, placed his hands on Sydney's right shoulder, and thought hard.

Andrew and Benjamin waited nervously for what seemed like hours, even though they knew full well that it had only been minutes despite having left their pocketwatches in Andrew's berth. Time had seemed to specifically slow down for this moment alone, out of spite.

"Think he'll be alright?" Andrew asked, still not daring to lift his palms and back from the door that he and his cousin had been set to barricade.

He couldn't hide his nervousness anymore.

And they couldn't even go in to help him – he had explained it before, the magic inside would kill them the minute that the door had closed.

Andrew had long since given up trying to fully understand it and just accepted that it was something native to witchdoctors.

"I can't say exactly." Benjamin was, as per usual, polite and yet brutally honest all at the same time. It did nothing to ease Andrew's nervousness, his fear and concern for his best friend.

"Do you think it'll work?"

"No idea."

Benjamin didn't want to talk, that much was clear.

"Is it because it's Sydney?"

But that wouldn't stop Andrew, Andrew who was amusingly oblivious to all social cues used by human beings, from prodding further. Benjamin, luckily, tolerated this with surprising grace.

"Yes. It is. I knew her, you know. On a personal level."

She's a murderer now, and you still can't believe it, Andrew thought, but he didn't dare to voice it. But he couldn't blame him, having been given the corpse of the woman that was once his best friend after her soul and her mind had been warped beyond reason.

That brought back his true concern – his question of _if_ Sydney was still mad.

Would she launch herself at the door, he wondered, would the both of them be strong enough to hold her in –

To hold her in with _Zachary,_ he realized, a chill of dread coming over him. The ship would be temporarily safe as she would kill Zachary, just like she killed Sam, or even like how she killed Jewel, turning him inside out and –

His stomach rolled and Andrew pressed the back of his hand to his mouth. He wasn't about to become sick all over the deck _now,_ of all times.

"Ben – "

"Ssh," Benjamin hissed, and Andrew shut up. "Listen!" He did.

It wasn't heard so much as felt, the rumble that travelled through the boards of the ship, through the door and the walls and the separating bulkheads. The green light emanating from underneath the door increased in intensity until it was nearly blinding.

Andrew squinted harshly against the fierce glow. As if on cue, he and Benjamin both backed themselves harder against the door, bracing themselves for what might very possibly be the impact of Sydney Underhill hurling herself against it, screeching in all her frenzied desperation.

Both of them held their breath, and then something catapulted up from the back of the room, hitting the door with a slam. Andrew felt his heart nearly stop –

 _What's happened to Zachary?!_

" _Let me out!"_

That _was_ Zachary, screaming and ferociously pounding against the door.

Andrew hesitated.

What if _she_ was there as well, her skinny hands around his throat?

"Andrew, come on – open the _door,_ this is important!"

Decidedly determining that this was not something Zachary would say if he was in imminent peril, Benjamin wrenched open the door, both he and Andrew leaping aside as Zachary practically spilled out before slamming it shut again. He was soaked to the skin with his own sweat.

"It didn't work," he gasped, his throat dry and hoarse, although confusion overrode his pain. "I tried. I looked for her, and…and she wasn't there…there's _nothing_ there!"


	50. Chapter 50

**Chapter 50: The Reinforcements**

On the quarterdeck of the _Unbroken Victory,_ Hunter sleepily rubbed his sunken eyes. He hadn't slept for a minute the night before, and this trend would continue for the foreseeable future.

They would attack in three weeks. He had three weeks to formulate a successful, a solid battle plan that would hopefully end in their retaking of Skull Island.

It was now or never. He had insisted, and he still firmly stood by his decision, as grim as it seemed. Either they would emerge victorious, or they would be slaughtered like animals under the fire of Prima's guns.

His mind was absolutely wrapped up with charts and maps and papers and diagrams beyond all reason and at the moment he couldn't decipher one from the next, and that from its next. So far he had determined that the best point of ambush was a direct charge – the Armada would have the advantage, stationed on land, and thus they would have to draw them out onto their ships, into the skies, where they were far less fortified and infinitely more vulnerable.

Given, they still outnumbered the survivor's ships three to one – but it was a fighting chance. They were desperate for freedom – to not be shot down and felled like grass beneath the scythe.

Either that or –

His thoughts were interrupted by a blurry shape, slowly coming into view, on the very outermost corner of his vision. It was too far away to identify with the naked eye, but he could practically sense it – something had changed.

Hunter put his spyglass to his eye and trained it on the shape, and as the device focused, his horror sharpened.

It was an Armada ship, a flagship, with many more in its wake – their numbers seemed to grow exponentially with every passing second.

It couldn't be the Skull Island fleet returning – they didn't have _nearly_ that many ships. These were reinforcements, sent to Prima from Cadiz at her command.

They planned to wipe them out, Hunter realized. To sweep away the remains and the dregs of humanity that they had neglected to snuff out in the wake of Prima's first attack. Eventually, no matter how hard they tried to hide, the clockworks would find them – they would comb every inch of the skyway, without leaving any blind spots whatsoever. With the added reinforcements, Prima would have more than enough ships to do so and to defend the island, in case the survivors tried to launch a surprise attack while their enemies were occupied.

He had to tell Vadima. Hunter quickly collapsed his spyglass, quickly leaving the quarterdeck and dashing down to Vadima's cabin.

"Madame!" He shouted, not even bothering to knock, "Armada ships. Prima's got reinforcements."

"From Cadiz?" Vadima rose quickly, flinging a purple plaited scarf over her crystal ball and knocking over the wooden chair in the process. "How many?"

"Hundreds, she – "

"And you're sure?"

"They had the clockworks' turbine sails, Madame, and they were flying Kane's colors."

He wanted to say it – he wanted to _so_ badly. We _need,_ we need to attack! Three weeks is too long to wait, by the end of three weeks we'll be lucky if even our corpses remain.

"I see."

And as if this meant nothing, Vadima bent, righted her chair and settled herself in it, perfectly content to continue on as if they were _not_ in imminent danger. Hunter was astounded, and he was quite sure that this presented itself to her via his indignant stuttering.

"But…but m-madame, are we not – "

"I know what you're going to tell me, Hunter," she sighed irritably, looking up at him through drowsy, dazed eyes. "You're going to tell me that we can't possibly wait longer, that we're doomed if we don't attack now, _now, now."_

It was almost mocking, how close her words came to his thoughts. There was no denying it. He knew it was written all over his face at this point, and –

"We have to, Madame. We have to. You don't understand how _many_ of them there are. They've at least three times as many as we do!"

"You have your friend from Marleybone," she said, referring to Benjamin.

"They have _five_ ships!" Hunter's voice rose to a high, alarming pitch. "That won't do _anything_ against their fleet!"

And he wasn't angry at Vadima this time, he was just scared. He was terrified – for the lives of those that depended on his ability to act right, to take the proper steps, to save them. He would fail them, and he would fail them all – they would die in one instant, wiped from the face of their world.

He would fail them like he had failed Dangler, and that was enough to start up the flame of rage within him even though he had worked so hard to quell it, to keep a reasonable head when he had come to inform Vadima.

"It's got to be ready," he pleaded, "it's _got_ to!"

Vadima eyed him wearily. It was the same argument he had been making for weeks and weeks, each time a little more impatient and a little more desperate.

"My magic. It needs time, you know that."

Hunter wanted to tear his hair out.

"By the time your magic is _ready,_ Madame, we will be _dead,_ and I'd like to see what good your _magic_ will do us then!"

Hoodoo could do many things, but it could not revive whole, living people, in the perfect condition that they were in when they truly did exist. That was a territory that had never been conquered – because it was not meant to be.

Vadima, however, did not see this. Instead, there was only deep anger – frustration – and perhaps just a little of that pleading that Hunter was made out of, present within her.

"Don't _speak_ like that to me! You should know – I TAUGHT you, you should _know_ that these things take time. I say to you, stop being so _impatient!"_

"People's _lives – "_

" _AND I WON'T HEAR ANOTHER WORD OF THIS!"_ Vadima roared, slamming her fist down on the table before her, and Hunter, unkempt, slightly unshaven, and clinging to the threads of his sanity, was too dazed and shocked to reply. "You _ungrateful_ being – you _RESPECT_ my art, you must, and yet you _slander it – OUT! OUT!"_

She did not even wait for him to comply.

Thrusting an open, outstretched palm towards him, an enormous wave of force shoved Hunter backwards, out through the door of the cabin, which slammed shut with such intent that it was nearly smashed to splinters.

* * *

One by one, the enormous fleet of Armada ships, each containing reinforcements and resources to their highest capacity, drifted into the reconstructed, fortified docks of Skull Island. The loosely-held wooden structures that had once served as a sanctuary for all races from all worlds had been replaced by geometric metal piers that extended rigidly out into the skyway.

Like a flock of dark, swooping birds, the fleet of reinforcements settled closer, very nearly surrounding the island, a few of them remaining sailing still – a fleet at anchor was vulnerable, and clearly they were not about to let any risks pass by.

Aboard the flagship, the commanding officer, distinguished by the gold epaulettes on his uniform coat, disembarked, accompanied by four marines. A trio of dragoons awaited them – they were to escort them directly to the Supreme Commander herself. Similar bunches, trios of the Commander's soldiers were positioned near and around them – no doubt to receive the Captains of each ship.

There would be no great rallying call in which Prima would climb atop some pedestal and make some great, overarching declaration of how they would purge humanity from these skyways.

They had no morale to raise, the clockworks had no loyalty to gain. They would do what they were commanded to, and thus, she would relay the information regarding the situation to those necessary, and no one more.

The climb to the fortress was a steep and treacherous one. The beaches of Skull Island had been placed into a state of desolate ruin during Prima's first assault, exposing some of the sharp rocks underneath, the rubble from the nearby buildings providing for an exponential number of obstacles that the clockworks picked and navigated their way through easily.

By now, it was literally impossible to tell that the compact, dense, yet fortified building in the very center of the island had once been the cluttered and disorganized manor of Captain Horace Avery.

The glass windows were gone, replaced by small porthole-like structures that were just big enough to allow those on the inside to see what was going on outside, but no grandiose framing, no enormous velvet curtains – all insignificant aspects that had been there for and solely for human aesthetic satisfaction were removed in favor of fortification and functionality.

The sentries at the doors of the fortress took one look at them when they arrived and pushed the doors open, standing against them, autocannons at the ready while allowing them to enter. The commanding officer of the fleet – the Armada had not used terms such as "Admiral" to detonate officers higher than Captain (this title had been kept for records' sake, as they were assigned to a single ship) was the only officer to take multiple soldiers along with him. The other Captains had come alone.

"Supreme Commander," he said, saluting Prima as she descended the stairs, flanked by two battle angels. The enormous train of her coat trailed behind her, the heavily tiered fabric moving and falling and conforming as she walked. Perhaps it would have been appreciated if her soldiers were mortal.

In her hands were clutched several files, neatly stacked one atop the other.

"Our situation here is dire," she said, sitting at her desk and waiting for the officers to move in around her before she spread out the files on the smoothly polished surface.

"This," she motioned to a tallied list in the leftmost corner of the desk, "is a list of those that were not accounted for among the dead or the captured. They are still alive – and are most likely still in this skyway."

The captured who, of course, were not now dead.

"Their numbers include Hunter Chamberlain and the witchdoctor known as Vadima. Chamberlain's partner, known as Dangler, is unaccounted for, but it is presumed that she will be near him."

At these words, she reached beneath the pile of papers to reveal two individual criminal files – one on Chamberlain and one on Dangler, the latter of which had been rewritten over itself multiple times and was very nearly illegible.

"Efforts have been made to locate the survivors, but an unidentified entity has forced us to withdraw all patrols from the skyway."

Prima knew that her next words were about to become extremely confusing – but this was the most and the only reasonable way in which she could say that there was an undead creature picking off her soldiers and ships.

"This is the information we have been able to gather on it so far – it resides on, or quite possibly, _is_ the _Grand Fife,_ the galleon that belongs to the privateer Sydney Underhill."

Yes, they all knew that name – the one that had led an assassination attempt on the Lord Kane, the assassination attempt that had been inches away from success. Not that incapacitating Kane to such an extent had been much different than terminating him outright.

"So far, it has taken out several of our ships and soldiers. It has been reported," she continued, monotonously, "that the decks are covered with human corpses in various states of decay. Underhill herself is – "

She paused. Here was the challenge.

"Underhill displays traits that are not found in human beings. She remains unaffected by shot and blade. Her jaw stretches down three and a half feet, and she has six rows of serrated teeth." Falling back on scientifically detailed descriptions, Prima was able to convey the image that she herself had seen. She doubted that they would truly comprehend the threat Underhill posed, however, until she appeared before them again.

"She is the largest threat present that has thus prevented us from proceeding as planned. Captains, you will ready your ships for immediate combat – our objective is to find where the survivors are hiding and then to kill them on sight."

* * *

 **I hope you enjoyed, and do be sure to leave a review!**

 **\- Severina**


	51. Chapter 51

**Chapter 51: The Impersonators' Infiltration**

Hair and clothes soaked through and through with sweat, Benjamin, accompanied by his cousin, Zachary, and the two revived members of Underhill's former crew, trudged forwards through the thick jungle. The air had grown even more moist than it had been the last time they had traversed through that cursed area, and every breath seemed to weigh several tons by now.

Andrew was clutching onto his arm, using him as a source of guidance. His glasses were almost completely fogged up, and hence rendered useless to aiding his horrible vision.

Zachary was dogging their steps behind them, and then, bringing up the rear, was Samantha.

Luckily, she had had the good sense to shed her leather jacket beforehand, otherwise now she would have been absolutely drowning in perspiration, the leather serving no other purpose other than sticking to her skin and making every movement cumbersome.

In Samantha's arms was the corpse of Sydney Underhill, wrapped in a white sheet and limp as if she was alive rather than stiff, as most corpses were expected to be. Samantha had carried her along, as if she was no more than a weapon or a piece of cargo, for the entirety of the journey, while Zachary would ensure that decay did not even come close to undoing his hard work again.

Jewel, however, who was usually found glued to Samantha's side, was towards the head of the group, stepping in time with Benjamin. She had been determined to keep as far as humanly possible away from Sydney – and hence, away from Samantha. Even though Sydney's body was no more alive than a doorknob was, there was no denying that awful, gut-wrenching dread that would rush through her veins when she was anywhere _near_ her murderer.

The five, not counting the cadaver that they had towed along with them, stayed silent throughout most of the crossing, not because there was nothing to talk about but because their tongues were practically glued to the tops of their mouths, the air was so moist and thick and heavy and sticky and utterly, completely disgusting.

"This is the clearing," Benjamin eventually said, trying to hide his shortness of breath from showing itself in his voice. It didn't work – they could tell that he was exhausted just as much as they were, including Samantha herself. As strong as the woman was, she was not immune to humidity and heat, although her resilience was definitely many times the average person's.

Sure enough, just as Benjamin had said, the clearing was right before them – light shone through upon their faces from between the leaves just ahead.

Andrew pushed them out of the way with the barrel of his musket and they stepped through, raising hands and squinting reflexively against the harsh, too-sudden sunlight.

There it was – the pyramid, the water, the ruins, the abandoned tents set up by the clockwork soldiers when they had first started their excavation project. And there was the slab with the dried blood, the encrusted blood from where Samantha had fallen after Quintus had placed the barrel of his musket squarely against her skull and fired.

At first, Benjamin considered warning her, or at least steering her away so that she would not have to look upon the site of her own death.

However, when he looked back to her and saw her staring dead ahead with a stony glare that could freeze hell over, it was clear that she had already seen and that she also already knew.

Yet, her only reaction was to grit her teeth and stride forwards, splashing through the shallow water that covered the ground beneath them, Sydney's body hanging from her arms like a sack of grain.

Benjamin admired and even envied her courage in the face of internal turmoil, and perhaps he would have put it into words if this was any other time but now. So instead, he just followed her without question, and without thought.

They bore the burning in their thighs as they climbed up the stairs of the pyramid – the elevator that had once been there had been destroyed – without complaint, none of them wanting to be viewed as weak in front of the others and none of them wanting to be the first. All of them were silently relieved when they reached the top, controlling their heavy breathing – save for Sam, who was quite immune to fatigue when only a short amount of time had passed.

She led them through the tunnels with her newfound steadfastness, her feet moving for her as if they knew the way. She had traversed this path only once – and in then, she had quite literally walked to her death. Jewel was also noticeably affected, for she still remembered the pressure of Sydney's weight as she straddled her, she still remembered the warm sensation of her blood and organs surrounding her in gruesome puddle, still carrying the heat from her body.

The two of them having died here, it was not in the others' place to speak, and hence they refrained from doing so.

Samantha continued on, and, like machines, they dogged her steps. Like machines.

Eventually, she stopped, and they were quick to halt as well – she looked around the corner briefly before turning to them, her tough countenance dropped.

"They're here," she whispered, fear widening her eyes and making them seem enormous in the dim lighting provided by the scant torches hanging on the walls.

"Clockworks?"

Samantha nodded, and although she did not panic, in that one movement she perfectly conveyed the importance that silence held here.

This was what everything that they had put so much blood, sweat, and tears would lead to – this moment. They had an even chance. Either their plan would work and they would survive, or it would fail, and they would be shot to death within seconds.

Samantha and Jewel would die. Again.

Benjamin, for this reason, had specifically told them that their attendance was by no means mandatory, but they had chosen to travel along anyways, and hence, they were here. However, that would not make the possibility of them having to suffer a _second_ death any less difficult to bear, nor the responsibility for letting it happen – even though they all would meet their ends in the same instant regardless.

"We know our duties." Benjamin softly addressed the entire group now, making eye contact with each and every one of them, just to be sure.

If there was one thing he had learned from inheriting the leadership of the arms guild from his father, who had taught him in his trade, it was that a good leader could sense the certainty of his men, the trust that they held within one another.

And now, when he employed that same unexplained "sixth sense," he found that there was indeed nothing to fear from that department. It would go as well as it could and that was that – all five of them had come here knowing that they might not leave alive.

"On three," Benjamin said, and they nodded.

"One."

Samantha's lips pursed.

"Two."

She closed her eyes and breathed deeply – in and out, in and out, broad, muscular chest rising and falling as steady as the trade winds.

"Three!"

In perfect unison, they stepped out from the corner that they had been hiding behind and stood there, in front of hundreds of patrolling Armada troops. Samantha set Sydney's legs down on the ground, holding her up by her shoulders to balance her upright, and Zachary sat cross-legged on the ground behind her, eyes shut as he breathed deeply, intensely – he was concentrating.

The clockwork soldiers stopped dead and, in a single, rhythmic movement, they turned to face the privateer's corpse.

When Samantha felt the tenseness underneath her hands, she let go of Sydney's shoulders, still standing by in case her corpse sagged and toppled again so that they might possibly preserve the façade. However, rather than collapsing like the limp thing that they all knew her body really was, Sydney stayed upright, as if tugged upwards by strings. Slowly, her posture straightened – and, as if she was alive, she shifted her stance so that her feet were planted at the width of her shoulders, so that her hands were clasped behind her back, the very image of the military leader that she had died trying to become.

"Benjamin," Zachary said from his position on the ground, without even opening his eyes, "take my hand."

He did not even need to see to know where Benjamin had moved to – he simply extended a hand in his direction.

It was clear that really, the guild leader had no other choice, and so he stepped forward and grasped the witchdoctor's skinny hand, hoping to got that there was a method behind this madness and that the details that Zachary had kept hidden from them, telling them "you'll see when it happens" because it was too "hard to explain with words" would suddenly fall into place.

And they did.

"Now speak to them," Zachary said. "Everything you say. It'll go through her."

 _Through her?!_

If he understood correctly, Benjamin would be, through Zachary, using Sydney as a mouthpiece.

Towards the side, Samantha took a step back, and Jewel came up to grasp her hand. They did not dare look into Sydney's eyes, but if they had, they would have seen that her eyes, rather than stony and grey, were entirely white, a faint green glow emanating from them that was not all that dissimilar from the glow they had seen coming from the crack underneath her door. In fact, they were the same – the trademark of Zachary's strange magic.

Benjamin, now aware that anything he would say would come through in her voice, from her mouth, to her troops, carefully thought over his words.

He knew what they needed to have happen – they needed the clockworks to leave the tunnels, to embark upon their hidden ships and follow them to Skull Island, where they would fight clockworks with clockworks and liberate the survivors that had been pushed into frantic hiding.

 _Oh, God._

Benjamin took a deep breath and spoke.

"Soldiers."

His voice was not his. It was deep and gravelly, but not his – a familiar voice, one that turned limbs to stone and one that dampened any sort of cheerful mood that was even remotely present within a hundred miles.

Sydney was speaking. Not him.

"Soldiers," he – _she –_ said again. "Our control is threatened. Your orders are to gather all supplies needed for battle and to board ships immediately."

The clockworks, frozen in their perfect files, did not yet move, even though it was clear that they were listening, absorbing, calculating.

Samantha squeezed Jewel's hand so tightly that it hurt the both of them as they braced themselves for, any minute now, a storm of halberds and charges to come hurling at them.

But that moment never came.

"You will follow the Marleybonian fleet that is directly offside this island," Benjamin concluded, thrusting as much authority as he could muster into the words before letting go of Zachary's hand and drawing back, breaking the connection although Zachary still kept Sydney's corpse upright and standing, perfectly posed like some grotesque puppet.

For a second that seemed to be drawn out into an hour and then more, the five of them were quite, quite certain that they were going to die.

And then, the brocaded figure at the forefront of the group, likely an officer of some sort, saluted.

"Understood, Commander."

All at once, the metallic, clanking footsteps of the clockwork soldiers filled their air as the formation broke again, as small groups of four or five made their way in an orderly fashion towards the piles of crates, the stacks of weapons and ammunition.

"It worked," Benjamin sighed, breathlessly, and Zachary, now knowing that his job was done for now, released his hold on Sydney and she crumpled.

Benjamin lunged forwards, catching her and swinging her dead-again body into his arms. She felt lifelike enough, although significantly lighter than any woman her height should be – she had starved herself, he knew – but he could not help but feel slightly disturbed knowing that he was indeed carrying a _corpse,_ she was a _corpse_ even though she felt, under his hands, perfectly well and living. Her skin was even warm, although in reality this was simply one of the aftereffects of Zachary's temporary hold upon the body.

"It worked?" Samantha asked again, haltingly, as if not sure that she had heard him correctly the first time.

"Looks like it did," Benjamin replied. His heart was pounding and he felt like it was going to leap right out of his chest.

The clockworks followed her, just as he was told they would – Sydney Underhill, however dead she was, still was made of her own cells fashioned from her own genes and traits which were still identifiable as _hers._

They followed her, just as they had when she lived – her blood ran within them, a little piece of her that unified them all.

But her brain was no longer what commanded them, he reminded himself, he was – _they_ were. What he held in his arms was a limp, lifeless mouthpiece – a transmitter, and an enormous responsibility.

* * *

 **I hope you enjoyed, and do be sure to leave a review!**

 **\- Severina**


	52. Chapter 52

**Chapter 52: The Scavengers' Success**

It was a miracle, after the numerous illusions, failed attempts, and near-mutinies that the Polarians of the _Sapfir_ had finally been able to fully reinforce the mast.

The wreckages they had come across were scarcely seen and provided little material that hadn't already been rendered useless by shipworm, but nevertheless, they persisted.

Following the rough blueprints that Decimus had sketched out by his own hand for the Polarians to reference from, the mast was surrounded by several layers of wood that had been securely fastened all around. The wooden structure itself was tiered, and firmly fortified at the base especially. If they were to become dismasted while at an angle in the skyway, then they would all be doomed, with no way to reorient themselves.

All that was to be done now was to test it – there were no more illusions, there were no more tricks. The wood had been cut and tied and fastened to the mast, and it was there, real as ever.

There was nothing more that they needed to look for, that she could taunt them with and then spirit away just as their hands had started to taste the victory of obtaining it, of obtaining the materials that would carry them to freedom and out of this damned hellhole.

Test it.

All that was left.

Sighing and clasping his hands behind his back, Aleks looked over the plans and then the crew and then the mast, making sure one last time that everything was in perfect, precise order.

He prayed that this would truly be all.

"All hands! All hands on deck!"

. . . . . . . . . . . .

Decimus and Vladimir sat just a few feet away from each other, perched on the box bed within Vladimir's cramped cabin.

Decimus had, over the course of his time as a stowaway, become less and less of an enemy and some emotionless creature to the crew, and more of an intellectually-based human – they saw him as something that lived and thought and breathed, even though he only actually did one of those.

Vladimir, however, was asleep – being mortal, he needed rest, and within seconds of sitting down and leaning against the wall behind him his eyes had closed and his consciousness had gone.

Decimus, just as silently, watched him, observing and calculating and making any note he could. He never needed to do this – to sleep, and to rest, as if recharging the current that ran through him and moved his frame in accordance with his processor.

He wondered if perhaps he would benefit from sleep – if his kind, the mechanical and the non-biological kind, would benefit from such periods of temporary dormancy.

Or perhaps that was native to humans, or to mortals, yes, that made sense – they had limited supplies of energy and required input constantly, something the clockworks did not need, something that had always given them an advantage over the enemy until now, where he was at a complete loss of understanding of those he needed to cooperate with to survive.

In that moment, he suddenly realized that he was at an extreme disadvantage to Vladimir – and to all of them, for that matter.

For one, they could die. He could not – not unless he was killed. And he could not let himself die, nor could he turn his blade or rifle on himself. These mortals, they had the option to quit their existence if they were driven to drastic enough circumstances –

But Decimus himself, no, he could not, as much as that would end the danger. It was impossible to even think of or to consider as anything else than something that was, outright, _not allowed_ and _wrong_ and it was a room he simply could never enter.

Matters would be so much easier, he knew, if he was human.

If he was human, he would never have had to undergo the process of erasing his own memory, of standing paralyzed as those hidden and buried memories were revived because he would have had the _option_ to die, it would be something that was –

Within reach, reason, attainable.

And - ! He realized it with a start – and Dangler, Dangler the madwoman who was ultimately consumed by her obsession with perfection, with the perfect, most fragile, beautiful being, would not have pursued him because had he been human, he would have been much too flawed for her to even think twice about.

For the first time that he could remember, Decimus considered flaws to be strength.

Perhaps this was the human rhetoric – perhaps this was why they had fought against Kane's forces, against the Armada, why the Resistance was so quick to form because they did not see their imperfections as a problem, yet, here came an army of unfeeling soldiers, insisting that it was, and that it was something to be eliminated at that.

If he had the capability to, Decimus was dead certain that he would have wished, with all his might, that he was a human being – a flawed, imperfect human being.

How he envied Vladimir, in his own not-quite way.

 _All hands!_

That was the Captain calling and Vladimir's eyes snapped open, he jerked up as if pulled by puppet strings.

 _All hands on deck!_

"Let's go," Vladimir said, and sprinted out the door, having no doubt that the clockwork would follow. Having Decimus around had become routine, almost, and he looked to be very nearly one of them, wearing a heavy fur coat rather than his ruined uniform – so different from the image that the entire Spiral had learned to loathe and fear.

As they ran towards the staircase, Decimus could hear the ship coming alive, more footsteps joining their own by the second.

Here he was now, sprinting past the entrance to the brig, a flash of white amongst his dark clothing and very briefly he could hear the screams of the imprisoned Polarian, shouting curses at him in his native language.

He still could not forget how desperate Pyotr had become at the very end, right before the Captain had him dragged off. How he had pleaded, how he had _begged_ Dangler to just take Decimus and leave, because he couldn't take it, her endless taunting and tormenting – he had snapped first, but the others had been close.

Decimus wondered if this was Dangler's goal.

To turn them all on him – to invert his sanctuary until there was nothing left for him except for her, only ever her.

When they finally came up on deck, it was apparent why the Captain had called them here – the mast, standing tall and proud, was complete, exactly according to his design. He had accounted for some discrepancies due to the chances of error, especially given that they were Polarian and therefore not skilled with the intricacies of Valencian technology. This, however, was much more than what he had initially expected.

He stared hard at the mast and made himself look over it for the seventh time because in the back of his processor all that he could hear were the curses and shouts of the imprisoned man.

Perhaps that was how they all felt towards him – all they needed was for the mast to work, and then they would no longer have use for him, and therefore would not object if his pursuer suddenly came down and swept him away, as long as she would then leave the rest of the _Sapfir's_ crew in peace.

"You worry?" Vladimir said, apparently having been behind Decimus the entire time, and Decimus did not quite know how to respond.

He wasn't even supposed to feel emotions, let alone display them. Had he learned to mimic the external actions of humans to a habitual level?

"There is a certain level of alarm," he replied. And that, there was.

"You need not be."

And that was all. Without even waiting to hear his reply Vladimir made his way to the quarterdeck, where the Captain had beckoned him. However, he returned in a few short minutes' time, a sudden burst of energy having implanted itself in his step. Strange – that had not been there before, Decimus noticed.

"The Captain confirms it. The mast is done," Vladimir said, breathlessly, excitedly, and all around him the crew had clearly just caught wind of it too. The celebration of those saved from death was not quite present, however, but that was to be expected after their attempts had proven to be false lures so many times before.

"So you've joined us," the Captain said, his big, booming voice echoing into the nothingness as he carried himself towards them with heavy, thudding footsteps. "The work is of adequate quality, I trust?" His jovial tone told Decimus that his approval was not really needed – the Captain was already quite certain of the sturdiness of the structure.

"It appears to be sound."

"Then, my friend – " Decimus was not expecting _that_ – "shall we give it another attempt?"

"As you please, Captain."

By now, they knew how to work the lever, they knew the sails and the ropes and the workings of the modified mainmast. Decimus only had to stand back, out of the way of the bustling crew, and watch as Aleks barked several orders in that rough, foreign tongue, setting his men into motion.

Like clockwork.

Not all that different, he observed.

Aleks himself had taken the lever, it was very much so the most vital component of this whole maneuver and had to be in steady hands. Decimus could have easily taken it himself, but he would not have been able to provide enough strength to hold it after a certain steepness had been reached, not to mention that by showing his _trust –_ or at least that was how he had seen them show trust – in the Captain, the rest of them would not feel as uneasy around him.

It would lower the chances of them willingly sacrificing him, that was for sure.

The men were at the ropes and the Captain was at the lever – all poised for the takeoff as Aleks pushed the lever downwards. There was a great groaning from the ship, from the mast, and Decimus watched carefully for signs of fracture or bending, but saw none – and the ship lifted up, at an angle that was steep enough to be noticeable, but not so much that the crew was unable to keep their balance.

"Excellent," Decimus said, and the crew erupted into a roaring cheer. Now, all that was left to do was to wait out their slow ascent – finally achieved – to freedom.

* * *

 **I hope you enjoyed, and be sure to leave a review!**

 **\- Severina**


	53. Chapter 53

**Chapter 53: The Servant's Sorrow**

The clockwork soldiers were as efficient in the loading of their ships as they were in everything else – quick and fast and mechanical and without flaw or pause, and Andrew had nearly dozed off four times, chin in the palm of his hand, elbow balanced on the ship's railing, before Ben had come up beside him.

"Everything's going as planned?"

A single look at his cousin told him that he was not alone in his state of utter exhaustion.

"So far. Nothing's blown up, which is a gain, considering that they're Armada clockworks."

Ben rolled his eyes.

"Their allegiance belongs to us. As long as we have _her,_ we can make them do whatever we please," Ben sighed, leaning forwards over the railing. Sydney's body had been returned to the same room that Zachary had practically incubated it in as soon as they had returned to the ship, and with a few simple spells performed once every other day Zachary was able to prevent decay from once again taking over.

They were, quite literally, using her corpse as a puppet, and that was a thought that unnerved nearly everyone on board. Even known, Andrew had no idea how many of the others knew exactly what they were doing, or if they would morally oppose it or not.

Yet, no questions or resistance had been raised so far – which only served to show the true depth of the blind trust that they placed in their leader, who, in turn, placed his own blind trust in both Andrew and especially Zachary.

"Is it really because we have her?"

"They would have killed us otherwise."

Andrew pursed his lips in thought.

"Then Quintus…?"

"I believe they will follow them both – they know she is dead, yes, and hence they follow him, her second in command with her blood within him. But when we brought her in, there were undoubtedly words coming from _her_ mouth, and she still remains Sydney Underhill in a strictly scientific manner, whether she is dead or alive."

It was an override of sorts, a back door that they had found into the command center, the processor of each and every clockwork soldier that had been within those tunnels. That did not make it any less bizarre, but at least it was a little more digestible.

"Have you let him see her?" Andrew suddenly asked, and Ben tensed.

"Quintus? No. Not yet."

"You should."

"I'm not so sure that Zachary will allow that," he sighed, running a hand over his face. He was on Andrew's side this time, having kept the clockwork locked up in his cabin for months now. Quintus could not kill him, he knew, but he had soon found that he could not sleep in the same room as him voluntarily and often dragged a cot into Andrew's cramped quarters instead. Save for, of course, those inevitable times where he would fall into slumber atop of his papers after a particularly exhausting day.

And Quintus, like the helpless, purposeless and broken machine he was, stayed there in his corner, unmoving and silent, only speaking when he was asking where Sydney was, when he could see her, if she was all right and if she was rested.

Because deep down, he simply _could not_ accept that she was dead, no matter of the fact that he did indeed understand what death was, and that Benjamin had reminded him –

 _SHE'S DEAD! SYDNEY'S DEAD!  
_

It must have been hundreds of times.

Shoving himself off of the railing and back upright, he sauntered below decks to Zachary's series of quarters, the intensity of his headache growing painfully. He massaged his temples and kept walking, rapping the back of his knuckles against one door in the unofficial marked-off section, then another, then another. He could be in any of those rooms.

"Zachary? Zachary."

Not this one, not this one –

"Come out? Please?"

 _I'm too tired for this,_ he thought, leaning against the wall heavily. At last, he finally heard a succession of crashes from the other side of one of the doors, and the hurried, uneven rush of footsteps that could only belong to a tripping, stumbling person. Had Ben been more awake at the moment he would have laughed in amusement.

The door opened and a very flustered, disgruntled witchdoctor came into view on the other side of it.

"Yes?"

"Listen, I know I've said this before a hundred times – "

Zachary's eye roll confirmed that yes indeed, it really had been a hundred times.

"But you've got to let him see her."

"No. Not happening," Zachary said, retreating into his chaotic setup that he had dubbed his laboratory. He didn't close the door, however, and Benjamin carefully stepped in, watching the area near his feet for any spare beakers or vials as he navigated his way through the room. "What happens if he turns on us? A clockwork on our ship – he was made to kill us, and certainly has the know-how to be able to do so in minutes."

Zachary had a fair point there, but it still had some holes.

"Not necessarily," Ben countered, "and if anything, it's dangerous to us if we _don't_ let him see her."

Zachary stopped whatever he was doing with the pliers and the glass dishes and the pieces of god-knows-what in that jar to look at Benjamin.

"If we _don't_ let him see her?"

"You heard me?"

"But _how?"_

He wasn't entirely closed off to the possibility that his previous assumptions about Quintus had been wrong, which was good, but there was still some work to be done in the field of persuasion. That part would be simple, at least. He had the evidence, the logic, and the firsthand evidence, if needed – that being Quintus himself.

"The other soldiers – the ones loading now, the ones that we managed to trick – they understand that Sydney's dead. Quintus doesn't."

Zachary's neck twitched in an oddly bird-like way. A nervous habit of his that Benjamin had been able to pick up on, after seeing so many reoccurrences.

"Then _why_ did they follow her? Do they _know_ that we're – that we aren't – "

"They knew that the words came from her mouth, from her body, which had her blood. As far as they can tell, it's her, and they're still loyal to her – they can't _not_ be." He cringed internally at the double negative. "But they still know that she's dead. So they _also_ follow Quintus," he said, his eyebrows having gone so high on his forehead that it looked painful. "And if we don't have Quintus' compliance and cooperation, it could risk this _entire_ operation."

That was a possibility that Benjamin himself had not even thought of before now – Quintus going rogue.

If he so pleased, he could order the clockworks not to fight for them, to leave them to die when they, along with Hunter's survivors, finally challenged Prima's forces on Skull Island. It was all up to him, and if he actually _realized_ that his Commander was dead, like Benjamin had first tried to convince him of –

Then he would have no reason to remain neutral.

As far as he was concerned, they had moved his Commander from her final resting place, they had taken control of her forces, and it would be perfectly within his power to put a stop to _all_ of their plans.

They couldn't let that happen – they couldn't even let the possibility of it exist.

It would mean risking all of their lives.

"So you're suggesting – "

"I'm suggesting that you let him see her. I tried to convince him, before, that she was dead – and thankfully, I don't think he's fully processed it, but if he does – "

"All right."

"What?" Benjamin blinked quickly, stunned. "Wait, you mean – _now?"_

"Why not?" Zachary shrugged. "Go get him. I'll be here. But don't you dare let this be a waste of my time."

Ben couldn't remember having run any faster in his entire life. He didn't know why – perhaps out of fear of what he would find. But when he unlocked the door to his cabin, when he wrenched it open and burst inside, he found exactly and only what had been there for weeks, unchanged.

Quintus, slumped in the furthest corner, unmoving and unresponsive.

"Quintus," Benjamin said, "I'm going to take you to your Commander."

As if this had literally switched him on, Quintus stood bolt upright in less than a second, a huge cloud of dust flying off of the folds of his uniform and his hair and his hat. Benjamin was briefly astonished – he knew that Quintus hadn't moved, but it was only now that he actually could comprehend how long of a time it had been.

"Follow me." That was the only thing that he could think of to say right now, but it was enough for Quintus. The clockwork followed him out of the cabin and below decks, as Benjamin traced the familiar path back to the room that they had stored Sydney's corpse in, lying flat on her back on that long wooden table.

Zachary was waiting outside for them, just as he had said he would, his arms crossed.

"She's in here."

He pushed open the door and stood aside. Quintus stepped past Benjamin tentatively, easily sliding into the narrow space between the wall and the table as he looked down at his Commander, his hands positioned just inches away from her body. It was as if he yearned to touch her, but couldn't – most likely because he would never dare, he never could violate protocol like that.

"Commander," he said, urgently. "Commander, I await your orders. I will now. I always will. I have carried out your last order," he went on, and Ben and Zachary exchanged uneasy glances with one another, "but I wait for another."

He paused, as if waiting for her to respond, maybe even expecting that she would respond.

"Please give me another," he said, and it was so pitiful, seeing him like this, waiting for his purpose to sit up again and speak to him, order him, command him. Quintus truly was lost without her, and they could not _afford_ for him to be lost – it would endanger them all.

"You still need rest then, Commander. I understand. You have not slept in so long," he said, as if reading formulae straight out of a philosopher's book, "And you need your rest. I shall be here. Awaiting orders. You. Your orders."

He spoke in little, fragmented sentences and Benjamin was instantly reminded of a defective robot, or golem, perhaps.

Quintus stood there so solidly, so steadfastly, prepared to take anything and everything without hesitation, and all for his Commander. Benjamin was tempted to call it loyalty, but that was not what it was – he knew that when it came down to it, it was nothing more than allegiance. Who he was bound to, in every sense of the manner – he did not have a choice, and he _could_ not have a preference. Such things were unavailable to beings such as Quintus, preference and any other aspect of autonomy.

But because of that, due to that, he needed her, he needed her like a parasite needs its host and like a plant needs the light of the sun. Otherwise, he was useless, he had no purpose or function, and he would, just like Benjamin had found him doing, do nothing more than collect dust in a corner, a broken machine.

It was then that Quintus actually touched her – he took her hand in both of his, as a subject would their queen, which made it a little less bizarre, but not by much.

"Commander," he whispered, and if Benjamin hadn't known better he would have sworn that there was _true_ emotion in Quintus' voice. "Commander, I knew you weren't gone…"

Benjamin swallowed. He tried to banish the awful sinking feeling in his gut at watching this, at comprehending it, but he could not quite succeed.

"I knew you weren't gone. I knew it. They told me you were gone. I had not thought so. Not even for one second. I knew you weren't gone, Commander."

* * *

 **I hope you enjoyed, and do be sure to leave a review!**

 **\- Severina**


	54. Chapter 54

**Chapter 54: A Different Frame of Reference**

With no further source of information on Sydney Underhill, Prima, accompanied by a dozen clockwork soldiers, was returning to Hunter Chamberlain's manor.

It was rather conspicuous, the way they were marching down the cobblestone streets like this – but there was no one else on the island and all ways in were surrounded by a myriad of ships. She was sure, with mathematical certainty, that she was in no danger now.

Protocol was here for protocol's sake. They entered the deserted manor and found it just as empty as before, with a bit of the dust blanket that had settled over everything more disturbed in the areas that Prima had trod the last time she had been here.

"Station yourselves at the doors," Prima said, gesturing to four of the marines who had accompanied her. They complied.

Hunter had a study that she had not yet explored, and that was her primary objective today.

Given what she had seen of Sydney, she was most likely under the influence of some type of hoodoo curse. Given that Vadima was missing and that the witchdoctor's coven had been completely obliterated to smithereens when Prima had launched her initial attack on the island, Hunter's manor would be her next best source.

Before Skull Island had been driven to desolation, this house had harbored two of the most powerful and capable witchdoctors to have ever lived. Surely, there would be some remnant of their practices – they would not have had time before the attack to hide everything away, there was no grace period for precautionary measures.

Prima herself had made sure of that.

She climbed the staircase, going to the one room that she knew served as Hunter's study – she had encountered it during her first visit to the manor, but she had not thought anything of it at the moment. In fact, even now, she did not know why she had made the first investigation at all. As odd as it was for a clockwork to find themselves in a state of bewilderment, that was exactly her current predicament.

The carpet of dust had remained mostly undisturbed as she stepped in, the long train of her coat sweeping up a good deal of it into the air and creating a greyish haze that obscured nearly everything as she continued towards the desk, the remaining dragoons and marines having positioned themselves by the window, by the doorway, on the stairwell.

Once she was in the center of the room, the dust had cleared, and she could take in the surroundings.

There was one window – it was small and barely larger than a porthole but still large enough to allow sunlight in, and the short wall was lined with a single bookcase and a long-dead plant. The desk took up most of the area in the room.

Reaching out, Prima ran a finger along the spines of them – the books were old, archaic, and likely had not been touched in years. She recalled that many Marleybonian noblemen did this, put collections of books on display that they had no interest in themselves for the sake of décor or propriety. Inherited from his father, most likely.

Most of them were books on the Polarian Wars – on strategy, even a thin one on the limited details that the Islanders knew of the Valencian Armada. How little they knew, Prima internally mused. How little. They knew that there were different types of soldiers built, that they had different specialties, and that they were commanded by a singular force.

There was not much more than that, she found, after briefly pulling it from the oak bookcase and scanning through it in a few brief seconds. How little they knew, indeed.

The books on war and strategy were likely from classes – she knew they offered some instruction in battle tactics – and there were some others which clearly had not been touched in ages, marked with strange scriptures. Manuals on hoodoo, most likely, but he had been considered a master – him and Dangler both – for a long, long time.

Prima had one of the soldiers standing guard collect about a dozen of them.

Having taken everything of potential relevance from the small bookshelf, Prima now moved on to the desk. It was a fine work of furniture, with detailed carvings all down the legs of it and polished brass handles on each of the drawers – which she pulled open and rifled through, one by one.

Small compact leather journals and portfolios, dozens of quill pens, both broken and intact. Prima only had to flip through one to realize that these contained the details of his personal life – these were his journals and diaries. Within the portfolios were sketches – he was not a professional, obviously, but each of the drawings were done with a certain level of mastery. It was a pastime that had remained with him for years.

At the bottom of one of the drawers was a thin sheet of parchment that Prima dug out, brushing off the dust and laying it flat on the desk, recognizing the feminine, shapely figure featured in the very center of the page as none other than Dangler.

She was wearing a very typical Marleybonian dress, with stays and corsets and petticoats and all. Her black, curly hair was tied away from her face, her eyes were closed, her sharp, angular cheekbones cast graceful shadows. Five lilies had been tucked into her hair.

She was smiling. In her lap was her violin.

Prima remembered that violin.

She picked up one of the leather portfolios and gave it a firm shake and several similar sheets came flying out, scattering all over the desk and the floor with a great series of rustling noises.

Dangler in a sleek dress, Dangler with her arms raised, a crystal ball at eye level, Dangler turned away, lying on the bed, a thin blanket the only piece of fabric covering her nude form –

Prima looked away. These were intimate. It did not have any meaning to her, of course, but there was still something intrusive about seeing this part of any being's life, she knew. If there were consequences of disturbing it, she was not aware of them.

But if anything, now, she truly did know the depth of the relationship between Hunter and the strange, skeletal madwoman that had held both her and Albus captive for more than a year.

Dangler at the piano bench. She was thinner now. Dangler, half finished, the features of her face erased, but the sharpness of her collarbones had increased. She could imagine how the scenario went – no, Hunter was saying, please just smile for me. Dangler. You're so beautiful when you smile, because he truly did think that she was the most beautiful being to ever grace the spiral and he hated seeing her in pain, but she would only cry and scream for him. Where is he. Where is he.

Where is my Decimus.

There was a very popular phrase from one of the mortal worlds – a picture is worth a thousand words. It had no specified origins and yet all at once Prima understood its meaning.

And then there were the scraps of unfinished sheet music, which Prima did not know how to read, she only knew that it was indeed music, but the fact that Hunter had devoted his time to actually composing meant that he had been mentally, emotionally invested in his music.

Again, Prima remembered the piano, the violin.

And writings centered in the middle of the page, spaced out lines in refined fonts –

 _Of all the words within all of the worlds_

 _You yet surpass them all_

 _Crouching, your arched back_

 _And glimmering claws; they_

 _Steal my breath and blood_

 _My body and soul ensnared._

There were more writings of this nature, short and abstract and having no specific meaning, but Prima had enough knowledge to know that this was poetry, and these were sonnets – love-poems, if one would.

He had written them for her.

Prima stopped and considered why she had come here in the first place. Surely it was not to observe the artwork or the writings of Hunter Chamberlain – rather, it was to cripple him, to locate and destroy him with the help of any traces of information left behind in the manor.

And so why was she still here?

Because, she answered herself, she still remembered how he had come into her cell like a child seeking advice, how he sank to his knees and sobbed and told her their story, and she had no other option but to listen and understand. These little personal affects of his were the missing puzzle pieces of what was needed to understand exactly what happened between them, what transpired –

Hunter watching Dangler die. Slowly, day by day, she deteriorated, her health sank lower and lower –

And she lost the last shreds of her own control. Prima remembered what it had been like to hold Albus in that cave, wondering day after day if he would function the next morning, if that wound in his side would bleed out in the middle of the night before it could tarnish over. That, that was what Hunter had felt, but dilated with emotion and amplified with a deadly combination of love and grief.

Briefly, Prima considered leaving the books behind, along with the sketches and the sheet music, and sealing the door to the study forever, as if she had never come across that room in the first place, as if it had not been disturbed from its eternal rest.

But there was still advantage to be gained.

"Commander. Shall we retrieve Chamberlain's belongings?"

"Affirmative," Prima answered, sweeping up the remaining loose papers and stacking them neatly together.

Just as the pirates had much to learn about the Valencian Clockworks, Prima herself still had much to learn about human beings, about mortal beings who not only thought, but felt.

In a few short days' time, they would be going against a horde of these beings, who both thought and felt, and they would _feel_ rage, rage at the takeover of their island, they would feel sorrow, the sorrow that came with the deaths of their loved ones, of their close friends and companions that now were nothing more than a contribution to the body pile. Prima remembered the six pirates that they had found floating, adrift in the skyways with no clue as to where the rest of them had made camp. She remembered the resilience that they had shown as she gave the order for them to be torn apart until their hearts stopped.

She remembered his pain. The pain that would still be there, because Dangler was dying and there was nothing, _nothing_ he could do about it. He would take that pain and he would face her in battle with it hanging onto its chest with Dangler's jagged nails. And Prima, ever the strategist that she was built to be, would find out each and every one of his secrets, his weaknesses, so that she would not just know the face of her enemy when he stood before her, but the man himself –

 _Body and soul._

* * *

 **I hope you enjoyed, and do be sure to leave a review!**

 **\- Severina**


	55. Chapter 55

**Chapter 55: Discovered and Damned**

Hunter sat, tense and worried and unrelenting, within his cabin behind the great oak desk, the surface of it entirely covered with complex diagrams, charts, plans that he had drawn up which were staked to happen in five days.

Five days, then they would take the island back. Vadima would not prolong it any more this time, he was certain – she had even helped him draw up the plans himself. He had nearly felt guilty for screaming at his very own mentor so many times out of frustration and desperation, out of the state of cluelessness that he was in as a leader expected to do so, so much, sometimes even beyond the span of human capacity.

Cure the sick. Or even revive the dead. His stomach churned every time whenever the wives, the husbands, the friends and the siblings of the recently passed would look up at him with wide, expectant eyes, for guidance, for leadership –

They were praying that he would work a miracle when his capabilities were nowhere near that. He suddenly also regretted sending that young golden-eyed man away from his door in such a fury. What he wouldn't give to have Zachary – Vadima's most recent prodigy – with him now. But he was stuck on the other side of this goddamned rock along with the rest of Benjamin Spinnaker's guild and there was nothing to be done about it.

 _Focus!_

Hunter's eyes snapped back to the diagrams.

He couldn't do this, he couldn't afford to do this. Five days. He had five days and one chance and he was _not allowed_ to miss it because they were all counting on him, every single living being here had thrust their lives into his hands.

Out of blind trust, Hunter scoffed. Out of pure, honest blind trust that he was not worthy of.

Not worthy of it, he reminded himself, and you never will be –

Because Dangler had depended on him, Dangler had wasted away in front of his eyes for years and he had done nothing, he had just _watched_ because he was too much of a coward to act. And she, ultimately, had died because of it. For what must have been the five hundredth time, Hunter repeated his promise to himself.

 _I have failed her. I will not fail them as well._

Review it again.

And so he did – he leaned over the papers and mentally drove himself through what he _was certain would be_ their victory over the Armada, over Prima Militus, their retake of the island.

They would come through _here,_ and in _this_ formation, with the seven lead gunner ships at the very fore-front –

And here (Hunter stabbed the map with the tip of his finger) was where Benjamin's ships would meet them, armed with catapulting charges and anything else his engineers had had the time to assemble.

And then –

" _Sound the alarm! Sound the alarm!"_

A cry came from outside of the cabin, followed by the fast, hurried rush of footfalls, and Hunter leaped up. It was the posted sentry, the watch – he'd seen something, and was rousing the fleet. Usually, this would have to be run by Hunter first, but if he had flown into such a panic then it _must_ be - !

Hunter flung open the door to his cabin, finding that the survivors were pouring out onto the decks, all of them quiet and focused, weapons clutched, ready to fight to their deaths upon a moment's notice.

"Where's the threat?"

The scout skidded to a halt.

"Armada ship, sir, in the channel – it's spotted us. She'll be upon us in minutes!"

"Dear God," Hunter muttered, mostly to himself. He looked around on decks, where he was met with hundreds of eyes watching him back, all of them awaiting his orders. It was awfully ironic that he had none to give – he had no idea what to do, whatsoever.

There was no clean way out of this one, not this time. The last time that they had very nearly been discovered, Hunter had summoned every last witchdoctor to the decks and together, combining their strength and energy, they were able to create a temporary illusion that hid them from the view of the clockwork officers. Now, half of those witchdoctors were dead and they didn't have even the slightest bit of hope at repeating that event.

"Hands to quarters!" He bellowed, and without question, the numerous men and women scattered about the decks hurried off. With the latest head count, Hunter had assigned them in groups of five to seven to individual canons on the very outer edges of the giant floating mass that they had been surviving off of. The ships had been so tightly lashed together, boards running over the railings and connecting them everywichway, that they would not be able to maneuver to destroy the incoming Armada ship. They had just started taking apart the connections in preparation for the battle – Hunter had planned it so, because such a feat took days.

They would have to stand their ground and fire upon the clockworks from where they were. It made them sitting ducks and Hunter did not like it one bit, not in the slightest.

The pointed bow of the clockwork ship began to show at the very mouth of the channel opening before he even realized it, and it took all of his concentration for him to force himself to stay still on the deck, one hand on the railing, the other holding his spyglass to his eye. They had limited ammunition and an entire battle still to fight – there was no way for this to end well.

The attack would be rushed. Regardless of what happened now, they would be discovered – it was just a matter of when the possibility of death would come to their door. Today, or in a few more?

"Sir, coming up!"

The scout tugged on his sleeve and Hunter had only realized then that he had drifted off into his limitless cloud of worry, damn that worry, damn it! Hunter looked again through his spyglass, and there were the officers, in red and black and brocade, troops lined up at the railings, perfect and monotonous and deadly. He was suddenly thankful for his quick thinking – to hide the wounded and the most gravely ill in the very center of this mass of ships. He ducked behind the railing himself, and now, he was sure, they looked to be nothing but a lifeless flotsam.

Any breathing being had been ushered safely below decks. This could have been a current point, where wreckage accumulated, for all that was known – if the Armada had not thought to look here first, it surely meant that this location was superbly concealed, and therefore relatively unfamiliar to Valencian charts.

The clanking of the turbine sails, the rhythmical clacking of gears grew louder and louder as the ship approached them, and Hunter listened hard, keeping himself well below the railing-line so that there was no way he could be seen unless the clockworks actually came _onto_ the ship themselves.

They were looking for signs of life – to see if this was a trap, or if it was indeed some enormous pile of wreckage and nothing more. They were close enough that Hunter could hear their officers, up on their main deck, speaking.

"Nothing yet, sir."

"Noted," the Captain said, and then raised his voice so that it boomed over the entirety of the cove, even though he still somehow remained miraculously dignified, collected.

"Any living creatures here," he said, "are now prisoners of the Armada. Come up on decks unarmed and with your hands upon your heads."

 _No!_ Hunter wanted to scream back, but instead he could only whisper it through the beams of the deck to the young boy that was standing on his toes to hear him so that he could relay the message as quietly and efficiently as possible. They would not be swayed. They would not move.

The clockworks, as far as they knew, were addressing a limp pile of wood.

The ship was now pulled alongside of the outermost ship of the fleet and Hunter held his breath – any longer now and the officer would come on board, and they would all be dead.

" _Fire!"_ He yelled, and then ran and dove below decks, dragging the scout boy along with him as they toppled down the stairs and collapsed in a heap on the lower deck as the entire ship suddenly shook when all of its starboard side guns were fired at once. There was a dreadful splintering sound as the Armada ship took the full force of the hit, having been caught entirely unprepared. It was not like humans to hide and let themselves come so close to death while retaining a cool head at the same time.

They had not expected this, and now Hunter had the advantage.

"Reload!" He called, darting over to one of the open gun ports and peering through to inspect the damage done. His instructions to the gunning teams were to aim at the Armada ship's canons – if their own destructive power was diminished then they would not be able to attack while the fleet's ships barreled it into submission.

As of now, the Armada ship was still being bombarded – the surrounding ships, not having Hunter directly with them to give the order to fire, had looked towards the centermost ship for their cue, and some of them with ammunition left were still launching shell after shell into the framework of the ship.

It was an enormous broadside, several ships long and with deadly force. The Armada ship was hopelessly outnumbered.

He gave the command to fire again when his own gunners had reloaded, and with another broadside, he watched as the mast of the Armada ship toppled, as her hull was smashed further and further in – the ship was trying to save itself, it had turned and was heading back towards the mouth of the channel when a charge struck the ship's magazine and the entire thing went up in a massive explosion, the result of thousands of kegs of powder combusting all at once.

Hunter felt his heart stop as the great wooden mass shook from the force of the blast, even though it was a considerable distance away from them. Whatever was left of the wooden structure, of the metal plating, was consumed by that great mouth of fire. The flames shot up high, a fiery beacon that stretched out and over the sides of the cove, the rocks that had shielded them from Prima until now.

They were no longer hidden.

Those at the guns gave a triumphant cheer as what remained of the wreckage of the Armada ship sank down into the depths of the skyways, from where nothing ever reemerged or was heard from again, but Hunter was quick to silence them.

"Enough," he snapped, _"Enough!"_

They obeyed.

"We've given away our location. We're alive now, but that explosion," he gestured wildly in the direction of Skull Island, "can be seen all the way from where they are – "

Now the panic started, but Hunter continued, merely raising his voice above it all and desperately trying to rein in his _own_ panic before it became infectious.

"There's no other way," he said, heavily, "we've got to attack tomorrow."

A heavy silence fell over the gun deck, and by the ladder that led up, he caught a glimpse of Madame Vadima, looking at him with a wary gaze. He turned to the scout that had been with him on deck earlier and gave orders to have a message sent to Benjamin informing the guild of the change in plans – it was mechanical, this militaristic sense of leadership, and it had

"There's no other option," he said, never once taking his eyes off of her, but she did not raise any objections – he wouldn't have _taken_ any objections. As of now, they could either wait here and remain easy prey, allowing the Armada to corner them in the cove that they had sought refuge in, or they could meet Prima's forces halfway. If they were to die, they would die fighting for what was rightfully theirs. The decision had been made.

* * *

 **I hope you enjoyed, and be sure to leave a review!**

 **\- Severina**


	56. Chapter 56

**Chapter 56: The Battle Begins**

"What's the status of the lines?"

"Almost entirely cast off, sir," replied the girl that had just been running by Hunter's cabin when he had called her in, "we'll be ready to set sail within the hour."

"Excellent. As you were."

She bounded away with a quick _aye-aye, sir,_ and Hunter sat back in his chair, trying to calm his racing heart before the crucial moment. In less than an hour, hundreds would lose their lives fighting for their freedom, their right to exist.

All the ships had been supplied and readied for battle – the ones that were still functional, anyways. There were one or two of them that had been damaged beyond repair by Armada cannon fire and those were emptied – they would be abandoned. Even if the Armada were to find those ships, it would be for naught. Food, water, all the essentials – if needed, each ship's meager crew could survive for a month on its own.

Their charge would be executed without hesitation, whatever the outcome, and miraculously, his shaky line of communication with Benjamin Spinnaker had held. He sent a different scout each time, carrying messages back and forth in a little longboat that was nigh invisible against the rocks and debris.

Benjamin knew of the attack, according to their most recent correspondence, and they had agreed on a plan of action, through hastily invented encryption.

They would trap the Armada patrols between them both – and although the firepower of the Armada was much greater than theirs it would give them a better fighting chance, and that was all that they could afford to grab for. Hunter's forces would charge straight for the island – there was no point in altering course when Prima knew where they had been hiding. Benjamin's ships, his engineers, they would come around the other side of the pod of clockwork ships, when it did form.

He was essentially using himself as bait, and frankly, Hunter was all right with that.

Reaching out in front of him, Hunter cupped his hand along the curved sides of the onyx urn. All that was left of Dangler, his Dangler who he had failed once and would never fail again. If anything, he would do this to honor her name.

"Lord be with me," he said, and then sat in complete silence, contemplating, praying, weeping, convincing.

It was the longest hour of his life.

In fact, it seemed so drawn out that when that same scout had returned, knocking on his door, Hunter had sighed in relief and told her, a little too eagerly, to enter. She was bearing the expected news – that the ships had been readied, that _they_ were ready.

Hunter snatched up his tricorne hat and bounded up on deck – now, he needed to be a leader, or at least he needed to pretend at being one.

Once he was above, it was clear to see that what the scout said was indeed true. The sails on the numerous ships had been raised, all of them had been turned about as to face the mouth of the cove in a tapered formation, Hunter's ship at the very forefront of it.

This would be the flagship, then. He did not even know the name of the ship, for it had been just a part of the flotsam, but the important thing was that this ship in particular carried both Madame Vadima and Hunter Chamberlain.

Vadima herself was below – she took her refuge in the gun decks, where she would be free to perform her magic, to practice her art, while remaining out of the range of fire, at least for the most part.

The Captains of each individual ship stood on their quarterdecks, in various states of disarray, some of them still sick, some of them wounded. Yet, they all stood tall, hands clasped behind their backs as best as they could, for he could feel it – they were willing to die for humanity.

For their freedom. For their survival.

That was what the Resistance _was –_ a fight for the survival of any and all mortal creatures that Kane had so detested, that he had deemed imperfect, that had no place in his spiral.

" _Anchors away!"_ Came the cry, tearing itself from his throat before he even had a chance to comprehend what he was saying, what he was about to do. _"Tonight, we take the island BACK!"_

And the ships moved towards the mouth of the cove, prepared to face their enemy at last.

* * *

It was like stepping into a black abyss of the unknown, when Hunter's ship had first emerged from the channel and into the open skyway – it was nothing like he remembered. Remains of shattered ships all about, more debris than open sky. All the remnants of a horrific battle, just enough to remind him exactly how many had died, how many he had failed.

If he had just been strong enough. Strong enough to kill the Commodore Prima while she was in shackles and at his mercy, but she had _understood_ him on a level that no mortal had before and he had ended up on his knees in front of her instead.

Beside him, the girl from earlier stood with a spyglass in hand. A privateer in training, she had the looks and the walk of one, trying so hard to mimic her own leaders, to stand tall. She held her head high, her proud defined chin pointing forwards.

In that moment, Hunter genuinely wished that he had some of her courage.

"Somaya," he said, as that was her name, "any sign of the guild?"

She raised her spyglass to her eye, black, tightly curled hair bouncing as she turned, looking round and round, scanning every degree.

"Aye, sir!" She suddenly cried, pointing towards what seemed to be the middle of nowhere. "They're at the very edge – I see Marylebonian ships, and…oh - !"

"And what?" Hunter snapped – he did not mean to sound cruel or mean, he was merely scared, and she did not take any offense from it, being of a like mindset.

"And _Armada_ ships, sir! Behind them, sailing in their formation!"

Hunter's heart nearly stopped. If the Valencians had taken Benjamin, they were absolutely done for.

"Are they safe?!"

Somaya did not speak for a very, very long time.

"I would presume so, sir," she said, cautiously. "Spinnaker's flagship is still at the head of the formation. His men are not being held at gunpoint, from what I can see – they're _following his lead."_

"Did they capture the Armada ships, then?" That was a much more reasonable guess, and a much more comforting one as well.

"Aye sir, it appears so." Hunter relaxed, audibly sighing in relief. Thank god, they had not been doomed and condemned before the attack had even begun, and now they had the advantage – with Benjamin at the far side of the skyway, nearly hidden, and his own ships in a wide formation, it would be difficult for the Armada to encompass them, and rather, the clockworks would become the ones _being_ encompassed.

Up ahead, he could see them – the black, turbine-like sails of Prima's patrol, and suddenly he realized that they were indeed much closer than he had thought, they were in _range!_ And yet he had not done anything – not a moment must be wasted.

"Somaya, pass along the signal – ready to fire."

Aye sir, and away she ran, fetching the signal flags. They were rarely ever used, as witchdoctors could easily send their own signals through any medium, but Hunter did not want to exhaust any of them. Not a chance. All of them would be needed.

The formation unfolded, turning sideways and preparing to deliver a full broadside into the steadily approaching squadron. There was no need to signal to fire – once Hunter's own ship fired their guns then the others, just like they had done in the cove, would follow suit.

Already, he could see the gun-ports of the Armada ship opening, he could see the mouths of the cannons as they were run out. They likely had an automatic firing system, although he would not know – he had never been inside of an Armada ship and did not ever plan to.

" _Fire!"_ Hunter cried, and the flagship delivered a solid broadside into the frontmost of the Armada ships. There were about a dozen of them in the patrol ring altogether, and so far Hunter's forces alone (without even Benjamin's in addition) outnumbered them.

He knew they would send more. Every hit counted.

They had appeared so suddenly, Hunter realized, they were not there when he had first left the channel – which meant that Prima had seen them, and therefore sent a ring to take _care_ of them. Prima, who had seen and acknowledged them as disposable.

For some reason, this angered him – did she not deem him worthy of her full forces? If they were to be eliminated, they would die facing her, not her foot-soldiers, while the Supreme Commander turned her back and carried on.

He stood, steadfast, on his quarterdeck with renewed fury. He so desperately wished to go below and fire the charges himself, igniting it with only his anger, his rage at the destruction of their haven, their land, their lives, and the Armada canons fired back but it was so, _so_ obvious that they were overpowered.

A patrol ring of twelve. Did Prima seriously think that they were _this_ destitute?

One by one, the Valencian ships were smashed to bits, some of them keeling over onto their sides, others sinking entirely, although they took care not to hit the powder magazines. With ships on both sides so closely clustered together, an explosion could mean their deaths as well.

Relentlessly, Hunter's ships surrounded the Armada ring, offering no way out without being destroyed en route, and just like the ship that had wandered into the cove the day before, they were, in time, demolished.

The last ship went down, turbine sails collapsing inwards on itself, and a great shout of victory went up from among the fleet, muffled by the wood of the ships' hulls. However, Hunter did not find himself to be in any sort of celebratory mood.

Twelve patrol ships, and they had narrowly avoided destroying themselves in the process – a maximum effort made by the Resistance, to destroy a force that was maybe a sixth of their size.

This was not the full extent of Prima's forces. Hunter remembered the sheer amount of ships that he had seen through the spyglass, he remembered how heavy the dread had felt, settling in and making itself at home in his twisted gut. These ships, this battle, it was only a fraction of what they would have to face. This would only get worse from here on out.

* * *

On the Island, flanked by two dragoon soldiers, Prima watched the battle commence from the opened front door of the central fortress, a spyglass held to her face as well. Clockworks had vision that was far more precise than that of any mortal being. However, she was nearing seventy years of function, and mechanisms failed, newer ones were made and improved. Relative to the soldiers under her command, her sight was poor indeed, and even Valencian optical technology had its limitations.

Thus, with the spyglass, she could see the individual _hairs_ on Hunter's head – there he was, on his proud flagship that she could not see the name of – it had been either painted over or faded or otherwise destroyed, the side of the ship was bare and plain, one monotonous slab.

She watched, without moving or reacting or commenting, as her twelve patrol ships were abysmally sunk. The survivors had many more ships than she had thought – and when the explosion had gone up, she knew where they had been hiding.

That had done nothing to prepare them, however, for _how_ these survivors planned to go about in their attempt to take back the island.

"Have the message sent down to the Captains," Prima said, addressing one of the several marine sentries.

"Supreme Commander."

"Tell them to ready the ships. We sail as soon as possible. The rebellion must be crushed, now that they have shown their faces."

"At once, Commander," he said, and was gone.

Once again, they would plunge – imperfect beings and clockwork soldiers – into a war, a fight to the death, never stopping until one side was completely obliterated. There would be no survivors, no prisoners, only victims, only casualties.

Only progress. The word "victim" had no true meaning that was much different, to beings who thought purely with mathematics. And, with mathematical certainty, Prima was dead certain that this small uprising would be quelled within days, if not just one. Her own ships outnumbered them by the dozen – and there was no way, there was no _way_ that anything could match Valencian firepower.

Save for maybe the strange power of Underhill's pull – and she remembered the shining teeth and the stretched jaw.

They would go to battle, and Prima, although her position was here, on land, overseeing the process, felt instinctively from the very base of her programming, that she should rightfully be at the head of this attack.

She was not made to be Supreme Commander, she was made as a _Commodore,_ one who would actively fight upon the front lines. Her attack, regardless of how impenetrable it already was, would not be able to reach its maximum effectiveness without her at the front, while she remained behind walls and windows, heavily guarded and _watching._

If they were to optimize this final blow to the Resistance, than it would have to be her that would meet Hunter Chamberlain and his furious comrades, face to face in the skies.

* * *

 **I hope you enjoyed, and do be sure to leave a review!**

 **\- Severina**


	57. Chapter 57

**Chapter 57: Double Take**

On the quarterdeck of his ship, Benjamin stood, feet planted and arms crossed, next to his cousin. They were moments away from entering the fray that had already erupted rather violently between the clockworks and Hunter's fleet, and for this plan, for _this_ plan, it had to go right.

There was no second option. You were not allowed to fail, or every single _one_ of them would be destroyed and Prima would win without so much as lifting a finger. Sydney's body was in his arms, limp and dead, hanging like a sack of grain.

He looked behind him, reaffirming that the numerous clockwork ships that carried those of the tunnels squadron were still following him, obediently – _perfectly_ in formation. They showed no signs of rebellion, of returning to their former allegiance, because just as Samantha and Jewel had told them in one way or another, they had Sydney Underhill's blood running through them, driving their every motion and calculation and thought.

"Zachary," he said, numbly, and it was both an order and a question.

"Yeah?"

Benjamin swallowed nervously. He already felt odd, carrying a dead body that was as solid and even as _warm_ as a living being and yet he _knew_ her soul had departed.

"It's time for you to carry us home."

According to plan, yes, and that plan hinged all on Zachary. Just like they had in the tunnels, Zachary would control and manipulate Sydney's corpse like a puppet and the soldiers, _her_ soldiers would do their bidding, through her dead throat.

Zachary rolled up his sleeves and Andrew stepped aside as Ben carried Sydney's corpse to the stern of the ship, up the quarter deck and to the poop deck, where they were overlooking the rest of the fleet. He balanced her on her feet, holding her up by hooking his hands underneath her arms – she was quite literally dead weight.

"Whenever you're ready." Benjamin's voice shook much more than he would have liked it to.

Zachary nodded and sat cross-legged on the deck – by now, he had figured out that taking as much tension off of his muscles as possible helped him to preserve his strength, and he would likely need to perform this task many, many times again before it was all over. He stretched his hands out, and concentrated hard.

Just like it had been the last time, Sydney's body tensed in Benjamin's arms, and he stepped back – she remained standing, upright. It was only when he walked around and looked at her face that it became evident that she was influenced. Her eyes, none of the grey visible any longer, were entirely green. Bright fluorescent green.

"Ben," Zachary called for his attention, jerking him out of his stupor. He held out a hand. Now it was time for Sydney to become the mouthpiece – the mouthpiece for Benjamin's strategies and orders. She would be the mouthpiece for their victory. Benjamin came back from around Sydney, and slid his hand into Zachary's, breathing deeply.

Almost instantly, he heard that same breath echo from Sydney's body, a thousand times louder – and when he spoke, _attention soldiers,_ her voice boomed out amongst the skyways. Zachary had amplified it – and they would _all_ hear, they would all follow.

 _ **The Valencian ships of Prima Militus threaten our Empire!**_

 _ **Destroy them at any cost!  
**_

Of course, Benjamin's own Marleybonian, _living_ crew had been given orders that were much different – they were not to recklessly throw away their lives. But yet, her voice drew them in too – and they could not help but stare at the emaciated woman upon the poop deck of the flagship, arms outstretched, her powerful contralto voice carrying far and wide.

It was hard to believe that she was, ultimately, dead.

Fight fire with fire – clockworks with clockworks, and the unliving with one of the same status.

* * *

Still standing in the open doorway, Prima clasped her hands – her reconstructed hands - behind her back and watched. They had only just seen the new wave of Marleybonian forces appear minutes ago – they had hidden themselves expertly, she would admit, but they would not last long. While they were occupied with trying to eliminate the minimally equipped patrol ring, Prima would send out _dozens_ of Valencia's finest battleships – with metal plated hulls and automatic canons, the pirates would not stand a chance.

"Supreme Commander."

"What news?"

The marine lowered the spyglass. It was his job to inform Prima of any new happenings – so that she could watch the battle from afar, the whole picture and scene, as much as her base programming told her that no, she needed to be _out_ there because that was what she was built for.

"There are clockwork ships among the recent Marleybonian forces."

"And?"

That was no surprise. Of course, the Valencian forces had woven their way into the rebellious little formation – that was how they would destroy them, with their automatic guns and their precise accuracy. From the inside out.

"They are not ours, Commander. The Valencian ships follow the Marleybonian formation."

"They are a _part_ of the formation…?"

"Affirmative, Commander." Prima was surprised. "It does appear so."

Reaching out, she snatched up the spyglass from the marine and looked for herself, only to find that he had been entirely correct. In the same tapered formation that Hunter's fleet had first appeared in, here came an entire force of Marleybonian ships, with no crew visible on decks, and the Armada ships, easily outnumbering that of the Marleybonians, were woven into their formation, _following their lead._

"Impossible," she whispered, looking over the decks for any signs. Red uniforms, dark red uniforms, and that was her explanation. "It's the squadron from the Ancient Ruins. They've left the site – those are their ships."

Because those ships were of a much older model and build – they had been there in the lizard ruins for years now, and had not returned to Valencia ever since. Of course, their equipment would be slightly outdated, with how fast Bishop pulled out new designs and innovations. It became more and more evident the more she looked at it, and that answered the question as to where they had been hiding. By the tunnels, obviously, as with Underhill about, Prima had not dared to send her patrols into the further skyways of Skull Island.

 _Underhill!  
_

It was as if something had literally clicked within her. Prima quickly trained the spyglass on the flagship – she could see several outlines there, but the details were hard to discern. Three men, and a fourth figure, arms outstretched, standing there frozen like a statue. A Marleybonian rebellion leader, perhaps.

"I cannot identify them," she said, as their backs were towards her and their faces could not be made out. But the _bow,_ however –

Just at the very edge of the bow, a clockwork musketeer stood, still and silent, and she _could_ see his face.

She could see his red uniform, and his _blue eyes._

"Sentry," she said, handing back the spyglass, "identify the clockwork on the bow at the front of the formation." As she was not human, there was no shame that came from admitting her own weaknesses. These soldiers on either side of her were likely no more than a seventh of her age, when it came to years of function, and therefore would have optical systems exponentially more precise.

"Soldier identified. Rogue Musketeer Custos Quintus, Supreme Commander. Noted for allying with Sydney Underhill and her crew."

The Rogue. The one who had brought this _all_ crashing down, right alongside his deranged master. She had seen Sydney now, the state she was in, and still had no clue as to _how_ his alliance had switched itself.

"That means," she said, alarms going off in every corner of her processor, "that the ships with the Marleybonian fleet are allied with them. They will fight against us."

"Commander, they have commenced firing upon the Valencian fleet."

She could hear the blasts, now coming from both sides, and suddenly, their own odds for this battle were greatly reduced. With this new addition, they were almost evenly matched, and the way that the Resistance had planned this out, they had enclosed a large number of the Armada ships.

Tensing, Prima snapped the spyglass shut, back into its most compact form.

"Prepare the _Decimator_ for combat," she said, and retreated back into her fortress. If her soldiers were to be threatened, if they were to be ended, then she would be ended on the battlefield along with them – but their function would not go to waste because of a _risk,_ a calculated risk that they had not been willing to take.

Her flagship would sail and the Supreme Commander would fight.

The surrounding soldiers had initially thought for her safety, of course, but her order had been a direct one and they could not disobey.

Prima emerged again shortly, her ceremonial sword clipped to her ornate belt and her pistols tucked away. In her gold-embroidered, high collared coat, she appeared as an empress would, a fearsome queen of cold-hearted warriors who would demolish thousands without a second thought or a trip of conscience. Because conscience was a weakness native to mortal beings.

The _Decimator_ was loaded with the necessary ammunition and she boarded, surrounded by a blockade of guards as she took her place on the quarterdeck. This felt right – this felt proper.

It was what she was built for.

With a groan, the ship pulled out of the docks, the wind filling the turbine-sails as they set their course for the hellish battle that had erupted in the very center of the skyway. They went straight for the flagship, of course, as that would cripple the chain of command, assuming there was any organization in the first place rather than just a handful of starving pirates fighting for their lives.

As they approached, Prima could see the blue-eyed clockwork, up close now, but he did not even look once her way. Quintus, the rogue, Quintus, forever loyal to Sydney Underhill.

And that was when Prima saw Sydney – _Sydney_ was the figure at the bow of the ship, clad in a black and gold Valencian uniform, her arms thrown out as if she was offering herself to some divine being, the three men staying far back from her as she shouted out orders.

Prima was absolutely confounded.

Sydney. Sydney Underhill is here. Underhill is here. Underhill is dead.

This couldn't be, she thought. Sydney Underhill remained bound to her ship, the _Grand Fife,_ with its tattered black sails – she was a hellish creature, one who reeled ships in with her presence and ripped apart the soldiers on board!

And the men standing near her – how were _they_ not dead, Prima wondered, because she certainly remembered the instant that Sydney's ship had all but brushed against the island, and the foggy outlines of what must have been more than fifty human corpses strewn about her deck.

Impossible. Impossible, impossible. She tried to think her way around it, but this, this exhausted her capabilities entirely. There was no reason to back up what Prima had just seen. And her soldiers – _Sydney's_ clockwork soldiers, they followed her regardless, the sounds of splintering wood and clashing metal and far off explosions taking over everything.

Amongst the rushing crowd of pirates fighting for their lives against a horde of emotionless, mechanical soldiers, Samantha Hawkins and Jewel Zabra fought, back to back, side by side, just like they had in their first lives. Samantha's hair had been tied back smartly into a bun at the nape of her neck, save for the hairless patch on the side of her head, a reminder of how she had passed from one life into the next as she barreled through lines of marines, swinging an enormous hammer in one hand, her knuckles scraped and bruised but her spirit left untouched.

She ducked as the sword of a dragoon whizzed above her, kicking his torso squarely before swinging the hammer upwards, quite literally popping his head off of his frame. She did not step back to admire her handiwork – with a roar of fury she ran forth like the juggernaut she was, bestial strength in its most terrifying and dangerous form.

Opposite her, Jewel, armed with a thousand tiny blades, expertly drove her steel points into the base of the necks of the clockworks, instantly dismantling them. It was a trick she had learned years ago, and it served her well now.

Left and right, four o'clock – some of her thoughts were in her native language, as well, that part of herself, she could never truly eliminate. It would always remain deep within her. Samantha's wordless shouts could be heard just a few feet away, and Jewel almost pitied the soldiers that happened to be in front of her right now.

She turned over her shoulder to look – and it was just in time. A battle angel was zooming towards her at an alarming speed, sword and pistol drawn –

" _SAM!"_

Jewel flicked her wrist once and the stiletto blade buried itself directly through the battle angel's forehead. She twitched once, and then fell, motionless, to the deck. Sam didn't have time to express her gratitude before she had to once again focus on keeping herself alive.

Turning back with a sigh of satisfaction, Jewel dodged a halberd and wiped the sweat from her forehead. This would be a long and tireless battle, and the both of them would fight relentlessly through it all, no matter _what_ became of them.

* * *

 **Yes, I was an idiot and forgot that Sunday happened last week - there will be another chapter coming tomorrow, I just didn't post this one on the day I was supposed to XP**

 **I hope you enjoyed, and do be sure to leave a review!**

 **\- Severina**


	58. Chapter 58

**Chapter 58: Ascent of the Accursed**

Save for the one man that had long since been locked in the brig, there was not a single soul below decks on the _Sapfir_ as the horizon slowly came into view – although it certainly was an unusual sight, coming up from underneath it. They had been riding out this slow journey for just a little over a week now. It was astonishing, to many of them, the sheer amount of distance that was in between them and the skyways, but given that they had not been able to see even the faintest glimmer of life or light during their time in that pit, it did make some amount of sense.

Now, as they finally approached, as light broke through, the dim chatter between the crew members came to a halt, the silence ringing over them all.

"Here she comes!" Cried one of them, and they stared, wide eyed and gaping mouthed, as the bow of the _Sapfir_ broke through the line of the horizon and emerged again from the clouds, finally righting itself – with Decimus carefully controlling the lever so that the angle was gently relaxed until they were finally level with, until they were now _above_ and not below the horizon.

Here they were –

And they were out, they were _free!  
_

An enormous cry of victory came up, so loud, and so strong and ferocious that the deck practically shook underneath Decimus' feet. He did not join in – however, he imagined that this was the human equivalent of what he had just concluded now, that they were out of that danger, out of the dread of the uncertainty, out of the realm of death –

And most importantly, they were out of her hands, they were out of her reach.

Dangler had been left among the dead, where she belonged, and here was the realm of the living, which almost seemed like a sanctuary, if one were to objectively compare.

But a minute had not even passed before a cannonball rocketed into the side of the ship, and they were all knocked off of their feet, shouting to each other, to their Captain, in a panic – where was it coming from, orders, orders! Decimus leapt to his feet, automatically grabbing for the musket that was not there.

The smoke cleared, and it became apparent exactly where they were. All around them were ships, Valencian ships, Marleybonian ships, ships that were more wreckage than they were functional, all of them engaged in a fight to the death. Aleks leapt up to the helm, seizing hold of the wheel just in time to be able to steer the ship out of a racing Valencian cutter, the wedged bow plowing itself into the hull of one of the Marleybonian ships.

Yet, this wasn't Marleybone.

It would have not been surprising, if it was, given that the two worlds were locked in a ruthless war, but this was not Marleybone.

Although the air was filled with clouds of suffocating smoke, it was still possible to make out the outline of a towering volcano in the distance, one of the unique identifying factors of Skull Island's geography.

This begged the question, of course, of _why_ the Valencian-Marleybonian war had suddenly been transplanted over, but there was no time to look for answers now. Now back above the horizons, the crew of the _Sapfir_ had to fight for their lives.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

On the quarterdeck of the _Decimator,_ Prima slowly lowered the spyglass, her gaze still trained on the area that she had just seen a Polarian ship literally emerge from. That wasn't supposed to be possible, not by any means – and it was difficult to compute, to say the very least.

 _How can it be?_

" _Commander!"_

Abruptly, she was knocked off of her feet and sent flying by some ten feet to the side, hitting the deck hard and wasting no time in leaping back up. Beside her, a thin trail of smoke and sparks rose from the cracked mask of the marine that had knocked her over – he had taken a pirate's charge for her, as was his duty and programmed nature.

Drawing her sword, Prima whirled around, meeting the long-haired man face to face as he charged at her, cutlass raised, and for a while they danced around one another like that, thrusting and parrying until she decided that perhaps she was humoring him without her own knowing so, and thrust the blade of her sword into his chest, squarely between his shoulders. He spluttered once, a torrent of red, and she kicked him off of the edge of her blade as the cannons thundered below her, their automatic firing mechanisms shaking the ship at constant, steady intervals.

This time was a little more intense, however, and she looked down at her feet – was something wrong, irregular?

Perhaps something had faulted. The rumbling hadn't stopped, cut off as soon as it had started like all the other times – it was still here and _growing_ and Prima finally realized at last that it was coming from something else, something much bigger.

She multitasked between fending off the crazed survivors that had launched themselves upon her and her forces, and looking for the source of this. If it was large, if it posed a threat –

From far away, on the other end of the enormous flotilla that made up a naval battle the likes of which she had never witnessed before, a great cry of horror rose up from the humans, carrying and spreading until at last it reached those on her ship as well. All of them were pointing to an enormous swell in the clouds of the horizon, billowing up as if the skies themselves had split open.

A storm, perhaps?

"What is this phenomenon?" Prima demanded, even though a part of her knew that she would not receive an answer. Nothing like this had ever been recorded, had ever been observed – at least, not during the existence of the clockwork Armada.

The world fell quiet in that one instant, and then, just as it had taken root in the hearts of every last mortal, there was a single, loud, jarring rumble, and the enormous figure of a woman erupted up from the skies, towering above them, the lower half of her bared form disappearing into the swirling vortex that had disappeared beneath her.

It was dead silent, save for the sound of her heaving breaths, so massive that they altered the courses of some of the ships, sent a few of them smashing into one another without any regards for sides or worlds or allegiance. This was a chaotic force, this was –

" _It's Dangler!"_ Someone shrieked, and the panic spread like wildfire as the woman at last turned her eyes upon them, light and milky and grey like the storm she was a part of, her long, curly black hair blowing around her and whipping as she moved towards them, her blackened lips parting into a wide grin. This was her, at her heights – there was no ribcage visible, no bones, no sunken flesh – as voluptuous as she once had been, Dangler opened her mouth and screamed.

" _WHERE IS HE?!"_

And all at once a million cracks ran over her like she was a porcelain teapot, starting from her mouth and running down her shoulders, over her breasts, down her stomach, as she flung her arms outwards and a maelstrom of enormous boulders rained down upon ships of both nations, the sounds of splintering wood filling the air, the screams of the frightened and the injured and the dying, the ship that had been next to the _Decimator_ had been dismasted.

"Fire!" Prima cried, at last finally brought back to her senses as Dangler whirled, as the shrieking of the winds, of her voice, became deafening. _"Fire upon her! NOW!"_

The Decimator fired off a full broadside and the other Valencian ships followed suit, the heavy lead charges rocketing at her – and yet, they seemed to _vanish_ the minute they touched her, as if absorbed by her. The pirates were firing upon her too, realizing that she was on no one's side, that she was here, the goddess of chaos and death and misery, to deliver them, _all_ of them.

With a high-pitched wail, she bent and swept her fingers along the horizon and at least a dozen ships, caught in the line, were catapulted into the rocks, smashed into wreckage within seconds. Prima was multitasking still – now fighting for herself, for her soldiers – fighting against the pirates who had blood to spill, and this enormous creature who had none, she was made of the wind and the viciousness of nature itself.

" _DECIMUS!"_

There was a single, sharp whistle and a large, jagged rock hurtled into the side of the flagship, Prima only barely managing to stay standing by grabbing hold of the ropes coiled around the mast, fighting her opponent and backing away from him all the meanwhile, unable to see his face or his features amidst the smoke.

But then she heard him crying.

At first, Prima had thought that it was merely a glitch in her thought process but as she leapt onto the quarterdeck, the pirate in pursuit, she saw that she faced none other than her old captor, Hunter Chamberlain, and he was sobbing _hysterically,_ tears running down his face as he screamed incomprehensibly.

He had lost weight. So much, too much, his bones were showing now rather than Dangler's, his eyes were that of a man who had not slept easy in years. He threw himself at Prima with rage, with fury, in a mad, insane frenzy that could not be stopped by _any_ force, and at the same time, he was pleading for forgiveness.

" _I-I'm so sorry,"_ He wailed, gasping as he ducked under her blade, as he aimed a thrust that she blocked in the nick of time, confused and bewildered and everything in between. His words said one thing, his actions spoke of an intention that was entirely the opposite. If she let him terminate her now, he wouldn't apologize – it would mean saving the lives of his kin. They would rejoice.

No, she realized, he wasn't apologizing to her – he was apologizing to _Dangler,_ the enormous, malevolent force that had materialized quite literally out of thin air.

"Forgive me – "

He roared and swung his cutlass at her throat, as if to behead her, and she leapt to the side.

"Dangler, m-my LOVE, what have I DONE…?!" Hunter gasped, stumbling blindly away from Prima as she advanced on him again, finally jabbing him once in his arm but he seemed not to notice even as the blood spilled out and through the sleeve of his jacket.

" – _WHAT IS MINE!"_

"Dangler, _please – "_

" – _WHERE IS HE?! WHERE IS HE?!"_ Prima felt the ship sway underneath her, suddenly tossed by the erratic winds, by the storms, the pieces of _land_ that she was literally _throwing_ at them.

Briefly, Prima was forced to take cover behind one of the guns on the maindeck to avoid being smashed into pieces, but by the time she leaped out again, Hunter was gone, and Prima wondered if he had actually _been_ there to begin with.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

Decimus had sensed her coming before she had even emerged, before she had shown her face – the crew of the _Sapfir_ had wondered what had happened that would make him so terrified all of a sudden. He had bolted from where he was standing, darting below decks and turning over everything he could get his hands on behind him, creating a barricade of sorts that Vladimir had to leap over as he frantically chased after him.

" _Decimus!"_

There was the sound of more objects falling and hitting the wooden planks of the tweendecks, but not much more, and he continued to follow the trail of debris before he finally found the clockwork, standing before the weapons rack, trying to pull down his own musket with shaking hands, trying to barricade _this_ door shut. He had not progressed much, and Vladimir easily pushed through.

"She's here," Decimus said, his movements frantic, his hands shaking, the little skt-skt-skt noises of the gears within his frame now louder than Vladimir had ever remembered it being before. "She's… _here._ Dangler. Here."

He had been right, of course.

The rest of the crew had remained on deck, blades in hand, jaws slack as they watched the enormous woman rise up before them, recognizing not her body and her face but instead the voice that called out to them, called out _for_ them and now Pyotr's voice could be heard in all of their minds. Just give him up. Take him. Take him and leave us ALONE –

 _PLEASE!  
_

"STAND YOUR GROUND!" The Captain roared, gripping the wheel tighter, before switching back into his native dialect that they were so familiar with and shouting off a tight chain of orders, to tighten the sails, to ready the guns, and they embraced it like a lifeline and obeyed. They had not a chance, if she found them, if she found out they had _him._ But for now, that chance was still there.

They were terrified, scared to death – the scavengers would not let it go to waste. It was simply the way they _did_ things, flirting with death every single day that they dared to breathe, and this was no different. They would fight until there was nothing left of them but mangled, unrecognizable remains.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

It had taken Samantha and Jewel, still side by side, covering one another's blind spots as Jewel balanced out upon the yardarm while Samantha, below her, reduced clockwork soldiers to smithereens left and right, her knuckles bruised, her face drenched with sweat.

" _Sam!"_ Jewel had shouted, and at first, Samantha had thought that she was in danger, but Jewel was pointing out at the horizon – this enormous scream had gone about just seconds ago, but Samantha had thought it was the result of a gun backfiring, the metal of the cannon itself exploding and taking the powder magazine of some unfortunate ship with it.

But when she did look up, she was shocked that she had missed it – there was a woman, towering, taller than the volcano itself, quite literally _snatching_ up ships and dashing them onto the rocks as she screeched, as she screeched for _Decimus._

"Oh, my God," Samantha whispered, but then a blinding pain struck her and she fell to the ground, bringing a hand to her stomach where dragoon's blade had knocked into her. It hadn't cut the flesh, thanks to her impenetrable armor, but the impact left her struggling to breathe as Jewel darted down the rigging, pulling her up onto the quarterdeck as they both caught their breath, as Jewel wiped blood from the large, seeping but shallow cut on her forehead.

"Dangler," she wheezed, coughing and swallowing heavily. They had been moving, jumping, running, dodging for several _hours_ now, with no stop in sight. "It's Dangler."

"How could she…?"

"Died," Jewel whispered, "she died. That's her, she's…she's somehow managed to – "

Jewel was cut off by another round of dry, hacking coughs, a result of the smoke, the dust that most likely coated the inside of everyone's lungs, by now. Samantha yanked the flask off of her belt, carefully uncapping it with her grime-coated hands and helping Jewel to drink some of the water that she had left. It would have to last. They had no choice.

"Ship to larboard!" Someone called, and the remaining survivors, a few of them regrouping, the others pummeling one prone Armada dragoon with several hammers and an axe, looked up.

"One of ours?"

"Hard to tell! She's – "

But then it went dead silent and Samantha briefly found herself consumed by rage. Dammit, if there was an Armada ship just _feet_ away from them, they needed to know, they needed to _fire!_ She was on her feet before she knew it, dragging herself up the staircase to the poop deck, seizing the poor lookout boy by his shoulders and spinning him around, looming over him like a great, enormous dragon so that his face drained of all color.

" _What side?"_ She whispered, dangerously – not necessarily out of anger at him, but out of the _need_ to know. Their lives could potentially depend on this.

"It's the _Fife,"_ he whispered, and then, having found his tongue, he shouted again, his voice cracking in pure terror, "It's the _Fife,_ the _Fife!"_

The smoke began to clear and it became very evident that indeed it was – there was the black hull and sails, the torn and snapped rigging, the vacant wheelhouse, the bodies, _the bodies on the deck,_ and then there, at the very bow, was Sydney Underhill.

"How…?"

Samantha backed away, hammer in hand once more – Sydney never looked once towards them, but Samantha could see from where she was that she looked almost exactly how she had in her final days before she had thrown them both into the brig, casting them aside in favor of her _clockwork puppet,_ who was now locked and alone and secluded in Hunter's cabin.

"Jewel," she called, suddenly feeling very small and confused, "Jewel." The swashbuckler was at her side. "You're seeing this?"

Jewel was just as speechless as she was, if not even more.

"It's the _Fife."_

"GET BELOW!"

The cry had come from one of the other ships, far off in the distance, and yet, the panic spread like wildfire.

"You too," shouted one of the others, as he rushed past them, blade in hand.

"What - ?" Samantha turned to him, bewildered.

"It's dangerous out here, don't you know – "

"Know what?!"

"She's killed _dozens!"_

 _The bodies on the deck._

"She ripped them apart, with her teeth – no ship can stop her, they've tried, get below!"

And he ran, not willing to, apparently, risk his life any longer. Yet, something didn't quite make sense here – if she truly was indiscriminate in who she killed, then why were they not dead yet? What was even more confusing was the fact of her mere existence, as her corpse was still visible on the deck of Benjamin's flagship, leaning against the mast as if she was asleep. But what they saw in front of them now – the woman and the ship – it was very, _very_ real. Samantha wanted to call out to her. She did not dare.

As they watched, paralyzed, Sydney stood at the bow of her great vessel as it pulled away from them, unmanned. Instead, she sailed into the thicket of Armada ships closest to the east and, as if stunned, drew one of them in with an unseen gravitational force.

"Look," Jewel whispered, pointing one shaking finger forwards – Sydney was effortlessly stopping the soldiers as they came, ripping them apart with her nails, her hands, her jaw _stretched_ and beside her Samantha screamed, stumbling back in horror. The clockworks were little more than demolished lumps of metal. More ornaments for her maindeck, and she moved on to the next ship, like a sluggish nautical reaper.

The appearance of the _Fife_ had certainly not gone unnoticed by the rest of the Resistance forces, either – aboard his own ship, Hunter had dashed below the second he caught sight of it. This put them _all_ in great danger, clockworks and those that resisted them, and neither Captain nor ship was of the mortal world any longer.

Pushing past several pirates, either on their way down to the guns or up towards the decks to fight for their lives, Hunter dashed for Vadima's cabin, kicking open the door only to find her seated at the desk, as usual – but this time she was hunched over it, over the side-laid bottle atop it, her hands resting on the glass as she chanted softly, forcing her will over the ship inside of it.

The black hulled, black sailed ship inside of it, the symbol upon the mainsail unmistakable –

"In…in _your_ control…? The _Fife,_ this entire time…?!" Hunter whispered, horrified – this was the ship responsible for dozens of brutal, awful deaths, and yet, he had always wondered how the ship had sailed, unmanned. Now, he was not so sure that he wanted to know the answer, now that he _did_ know it.

"The deaths on her hands," he gulped, shallowly, "they're on _yours…!"_

Vadima looked up then, her hands still upon the bottle – although she seemed to have risen from her trance, looking deep into his eyes with a mournful, tormented expression.

"…I _had_ to, Hunter."

* * *

 **Yes, I'm very, very late in uploading this and I'm so sorry about that. Truthfully things have been an absolute mess for me at the moment, I've been trying to scrape together a composition, not to mention that my own mental health has taken a sudden nosedive. Things seem to be clearing up recently though, so I'm going to try and dig myself out of this hole the best I can. Updates will come as soon as I've finished them - we're almost done here!**

 **Thank you to everyone who's actually still reading this thing and/or being so miraculously patient with me.**

 **I hope you enjoyed, and be sure to leave a review!**

 **\- Severina**


	59. Chapter 59

**Chapter 59: The War of the Realms**

"How _could_ you?!" Hunter cried, lunging towards Vadima, and she lurched out of the way, the ship bottle clutched in her hand.

"You don't _understand – "_

"Then _enlighten_ me, oh TEACHER!" He roared – he was all anger and rage. The people he had worked so hard to protect, that he had risked his own life for, they were killed from within!

"She _killed_ Dangler, you saw her – she's a monster, Hunter!"

"And you're no better!"

"She didn't _deserve_ peace! It's her due _punishment,_ Hunter – let her have the power she so lusted for, let her be _doomed_ to roam the skies forevermore, with not a soul to offer her sympathy!"

Hunter understood now – he understood what had happened, that was. Vadima had, using her own powers that stretched beyond the scope of Hunter's comprehension, bound Sydney Underhill to the _Grand Fife –_ like Davy Jones, like the legends of old, she was doomed to never step off of her ship, except she did not even have the luxury of a cursed crew to obey her, or the privilege to step onto dry land once every decade.

Never would she see another face remain before her for more than a few seconds before she ripped them to shreds – a ruthless, heartless killing machine, feared and powerful, just like she had wanted.

It was her curse, Vadima said.

"And you thought," Hunter growled, "you thought that this was _worth_ the lives of our own, _Madame?"_

"I – "

"Of _children?!_ They hadn't even learned how to hold their blades properly and we sent them out, we sent them out to do their rounds because we had to and they _died_ for it!"

"But _see,_ see here," Vadima gasped, letting the bottle drop – it rolled into the corner – and she wildly gestured towards the door of the cabin. "Have control of her now, she attacks the clockworks and not our own kind – she will win this war for us, she will save us _all!"_

"She will DOOM us all!" Hunter advanced on Vadima, raising his staff – and then, suddenly, he spotted the bottle in the corner. Vadima followed his gaze and her eyes widened as they both realized, and then Hunter tackled her to the floor, pressing his staff down across her throat all while trying to scrape for the bottle containing and controlling the _Fife_ with his foot. She strained against him with incredible strength and for a while, they grappled there – until Vadima whispered some strange, unfamiliar word and Hunter was thrown back across the cabin, his body slamming into the wall. Vadima dived for the bottle, and Hunter aimed his staff at her, draining her energy until her steps were sluggish and slow, her eyes could barely stay open.

How ironic it was, that she had been the one to teach him this, to coach him.

But that also meant that she was a master of these spells herself, and she was quick to rejoin the favor – turning on him now, hands outstretched, fingers bent at the knuckles so that it almost looked like she had claws, Hunter found himself sinking to his knees.

"This," Vadima rasped, "would not have happened if you had not _failed_ to save her!"

Dangler. Failed to save Dangler. Hunter bared his teeth and strained against the dying of his own internal will – but it hardly yielded. In his mind, he knew that it was indeed his fault, that he should have seen this coming far sooner than he did, and he should have _stopped_ her, saved her from herself, perhaps.

" _My_ daughter!" Vadima shrieked, her voice breaking as she choked on her tears, beads and necklaces and chains jangling as she paced, as she waved her arms wildly about – "That monster _killed_ my daughter!"

Hunter struggled to his feet.

"And you," he spat out, "you brought that monster _back."_

"A fitting punishment, don't you think…? To spend a lifetime aboard her beloved ship, never _again_ to know the joys of human contact! She will never talk to another of her own kind – she will never share _friendship,_ after she _destroyed_ those who gave it to her! And she will never know love," Vadima seethed, " _because she took mine from me."_

His teacher was not the woman he had known her to be. He remembered, vaguely, her saying that she wished for the clockworks to see and to _know_ how cruel she could be – it certainly was clear _now,_ that was for sure. She was beyond reaching – just as Dangler had been, whenever she immersed herself in illusion, except this time, Vadima would sacrifice those she had sworn to _protect_ all for the sake of her revenge!

"I will stop," she muttered, "at _nothing."_

"And the deaths of your novice students? Some of them haven't even had their tenth birthday," Hunter gasped, struggling back to his feet, pushing himself off of the wall – his staff was somewhere else in the cabin, he could not possibly find it now, not in his current state. "You are willing to…to _sacrifice_ them? Their lives?"

Vadima stood still for a moment and Hunter crept closer.

"I will stop at nothing," she said again, and it was decided, it was determined, that was the ultimatum.

Hunter unsheathed the cutlass at his hip, stepped forwards towards her turned back, and drove the blade through Madame's heart.

* * *

On the _Sapfir,_ the Polarian crew was in a general state of unease, the source of that unease being one man in particular by the name of Viktor. Decimus had finally been persuaded back onto deck by Vladimir, but this new occurrence had not placed him any more at ease. Viktor had always been a quiet man, the most reserved of the crew, and so Decimus had not taken as much notice of him – but now, this man was standing tall, with a stance that was very unusual for him – and his eyes, they were cloudy, as if cataracts had suddenly overcome the both of them.

"What's happened to him?" A voice from the side said, rough and coarse and demanding, and the Captain shot him a sharp glare, leaning in closer to get a better look when Viktor suddenly _leaped_ at him, blade raised high in the air until Vladimir intercepted him midway, pinning him to the deck and wrestling the battleaxe from his hands. This ferocity was unexpected, but Viktor was still much smaller than a great many of his shipmates.

"Don't _stand_ about!" Roared the Captain, "Find something to bind him with, quickly!"

A few of the men scattered, the remaining half of them still on deck, the points of their blades trained at Viktor's head should he attempt to cause harm to _any_ of them again. His eyes were still clouded, but it could not possibly be blindness – Decimus knew that mortals without their vision did not operate as precisely as he did.

Then what was this condition?

Slowly edging closer towards the pinned man, Decimus bent over him, despite the warning glances from Vladimir, when Viktor suddenly lunged for him. Although he remained pinned to the ground thanks to the weight of his shipmate holding him down, it had been with _tremendous_ force that he had tried to throw himself upwards towards the clockwork, and Decimus staggered back, his defenses instantly up.

"Stop this nonsense!" Yelled Vladimir – and of course, nothing happened.

And then Viktor spoke.

" _There you are,"_ he said, although that was most definitely not his voice, it was far too high pitched and sounded like an animal with its throat brutally and jaggedly sliced open. It was Dangler's voice, coming out of a Polarian scavenger's mouth, and Decimus suddenly flung himself across the deck. He reached where Viktor's weapon had fallen, hefting it up with some difficulty and training the point directly at his face.

"I would advise you," Decimus said, "to stop further resistance." There. Those words – he had likely said them before, when Kane controlled his every movement, but Kane was no more and Dangler was very much so _alive,_ she was _within_ Viktor-!

" _I've been looking for you, oh…"_

"Decimus, it's…it's not him – "

" _Dangler!"_

Several of the crew members came back now, with quite a few lengths of rope being carried between them all.

"Bind him tightly," the Captain ordered, "we'll deal with him in time. Throw him into the brig!"

Two men approached with the rope and Vladimir, who was now blocking their way, moved so that they could access him – but that was when he jumped up with lightning speed, grabbing one of them and _throwing_ them across the deck, the unfortunate receiver soaring nearly eight feet before crashing limply onto the deck.

That poor soul, however, had not even been the objective – staring dead ahead with that milky white gaze, Viktor started for Decimus.

" _I have you now!"_

"No-!"

Decimus practically flew down the hatchway, without so much as even a second's worth of hesitation. Behind him, he could hear the grunts and struggles of the other men as they fought to restrain their possessed comrade, and yet this did not slow his pace in the slightest. He had to hide – had to get _away,_ now!

There was a frenzied yell and then a series of thumps, and Viktor was merely _paces_ behind him, having thrown himself down the hatchway below decks after the clockwork, his eyes still just as unfocused. They were not his own, those eyes did not belong to any regular human.

Decimus hardly even had time to process, to analyze, to decide. Leaping into the arms hold, he seized a pistol, cocked it without even checking to see if it had been primed first, and fired directly at Viktor's chest. The man, his eyes suddenly becoming _his own_ again seconds before the charge hit him full throttle in the chest, thrashed wildly in the throes of what could only be a most painful death before his body fell to the floor, limp, his hand occasionally twitching now and then. His chest was not rising, there was no heartbeat.

And Decimus had just killed an innocent man.

Being a clockwork, it was not the innocence of the Polarian that was alarming – rather it was the fact that whatever had possessed him – Dangler – was still out and about.

Was _this_ what she intended for him, using his own saviors as puppets – she would make him kill every last one, she would make him tear down his _own_ walls until there was nothing stopping her - !

Now alerted by the commotion, by the rabid yells of their shipmate and the bang of the gun, the rest of the crew spilled down below decks, far too fast for Decimus to warn them or stop them. They were here, she was here, and it was too late. He dropped the pistol immediately, reaching for a rifle – his _own_ rifle, he recognized, it was the standard weapon issued to all clockworks serving in the Polarian patrol, to the type of soldier that he had been masquerading as before he had been found.

Even now he concluded that it would have been optimal had he been left there to bleed out to the point of termination, with no figure to follow and no orders to receive. Buried in the snow. Lost forever.

There! There were the eyes again, unfocused and clouded, and this time it was in Ivan and although he had been barricaded by the rest of his shipmates, the possessed man charged directly at him, shoving his captain and comrades aside as if they weighed no more than a feather. He launched himself at Decimus, and being of quite a sturdy build, Decimus was left utterly helpless as he was knocked to the ground, the rifle sliding just out of his grasp as that distorted wail came again, a feminine voice from the mouth of the poor condemned man, a rough, calloused hand coming up to wrap around Decimus' throat with indescribable force.

"Get off of him, stop this-!"

Vladimir was somewhere further down, near the hatchway. Decimus felt rather than heard his footsteps approaching, and before he could try and listen any further the man was yanked off of him and he scrambled to his feet only for an impact of enormous magnitude to suddenly knock every man aboard to the ground. Decimus felt something pressing against his arm – his rifle! And he snatched it up, looking forwards again. The narrow hold, the rest of it, was _gone._ In its place, there was a segment (or at least it _looked_ like a segment) of a ship's hull, barnacles clinging to the black-painted boards.

Decimus had very nearly dismissed it as debris, until a shot went off and he threw himself to the ground just in time before a cannonball went whizzing over his head, having been fired from _inside_ the black ship. There was now an enormous hole where the exterior of the ship had been, revealing the still-smoking 36-pounder and the figure of a woman beside it, her hand still on the lanyard.

The man who had tackled him just earlier stood up, fury and hysteria in his eyes as he – _she –_ screeched with fury, Dangler still puppeteering his body for the time being. The woman, as if entranced, took two, then three steps forwards, revealing her own pale, sunken face before she contorted _horridly_ and her features morphed into those of some ungodly creature.

" _YOU TOOK EVERYTHING FROM ME!"_

The woman's voice sounded like four all tied together. Dangler leaped at her, teeth bared, and Decimus ran, slipping into the enormous hold of the black ship before darting off into the shadows. The explosives kept aboard the _Sapfir_ were on the _other_ side, towards the stern, and the demonic woman had effectively plowed her ship right through the center, cross-sectioning the Polarian ship. She had to have a magazine, storages of powder or something even more violent – and that would have to do.

"And where do you think _you're_ going?"

Decimus felt hot breath against the side of his face, and he continued to press forwards, only sparing a quick glance over his shoulder. The pirate woman had run a cutlass through the man's back and he caught just a glimpse of a transparent mist flying out of his body before another high-pitched shriek echoed from somewhere aboard the _Sapfir._

She was taking them out one by one until there was _nothing_ standing in between her and her complete _ownership_ of him.

Running aft, Decimus kept his boots on – usually, humans would have to take their shoes off or wear list slippers if they went into the magazine, but given that his exterior frame was entirely metal, it would then be even _more_ likely to set off a spark. He moved slowly, feeling about until he finally found several charges of naptha, already measured. Gathering several of them against his chest, he swiftly ran out, knowing that Dangler, having attained a new puppet, would be coming for him in any moment.

The woman in the gun decks, the guns themselves on their sides and rolling about (they had been left unsecured), she had completely become some unholy, godforsaken creature – and there were three of the scavengers in combat with her, Vladimir included. There was not enough light to discern whether one of those soldiers was possessed or not, but either way, there _was_ no stopping her – even if this pirate delayed her, Dangler was inescapable when she was here and unable to be truly killed.

Unless.

Like a snake, Decimus wove through the decks of the _Sapfir_ , having carefully opened one of the charges and trailing a thin line of the highly flammable powder in his wake, his hands shaking even as he held tightly to the external coverings.

" _You won't get away this time, my dear!"_

Decimus whirled around, slamming himself harshly into the hull of the _Sapfir_ to pin the charges against his body (if they fell to the ground, all would be for nothing) and lifted his rifle off of his back with the other hand, shooting the soldier point blank in an instant. In place of the unnamed soldier's last breath was the frustrated, _enraged_ shriek of that wicked woman as she spirited up and out, now in need of a new living body to manifest herself in.

Just like the pirate woman, he could delay her, but she could not be held back forever, and he would not, he _would not_ let her have him, keep him for an eternity of torment and formless chaos.

The _Sapfir_ was a thankfully small ship, and any areas that were on the other side of the enormous galleon were as good as gone, all of the men had been forward at the time that she had rammed them. Continuing backwards, always listening for more footsteps, more shouts, Decimus traced back to Vladimir's small berth and shut the door quickly, emptying the rest of the charges by his feet before grabbing the pistol off of the tiny bed and cocking it, keeping it aimed at the deck, his whole frame tense and still.

He listened, and heard nothing.

The ship was silent, save for the gentle creaking of the ropes above.

Dangler was an unnatural creature, and so was that woman – was it possible that they could have eliminated one another? She was a spirit, and still would need some kind of physical form to do any damage – if there was no one left alive then perhaps his fate would not belong, ultimately, with her.

There was a faint pressing noise from behind the door and Decimus tensed. If this was Dangler, he would not fight her – he would destroy her, and everything else along with her.

The door opened and Vladimir burst into the room.

"Decimus, you…she didn't get you yet, it'll be all right."

"No. No. You m-must leave."

"Put down the pistol."

"Leave. Before s-she finds you."

And oddly enough, Vladimir's expression morphed completely, and he reached out one hand towards the marksman, palm up. Decimus was not _sure_ what this gesture was supposed to mean, or signify – but it worked, he began to lower the pistol, inch by inch.

"Good, good," Vladimir, whispered, encouraging him gently. "Now Decimus – "

And then there was a sudden rush of air, Vladimir's eyes faded, taken over by a familiar, cloudy-milky-white haze and Decimus pulled the trigger.

The _Sapfir,_ and anything left on or in her, went up in an enormous explosion that could be felt for miles.

The _Fife_ was blasted out and away from the wreckage, as if flung, and Sydney rushed up on deck, looking hopelessly down at the little splinters that had once been the Polarian ship. That had been her one chance at vengeance, at the woman who had taken very nearly _everything_ from her. She had gone after Quintus, she had fought tooth and nail against the ex-privateer for information about a clockwork officer Sydney did not even know of.

Panting, she dragged herself, her damned and cursed body, to the railing, peering out over the haze of fire and smoke and flying splinters. She found, much to her own dismay, that she was surrounded by a ring of ships, both pirate and Armada ships alike, Hunter Chamberlain (covered in blood) and Prima on their respective flagships.

"Stand down."

Prima's voice was able to carry just over to her, and Sydney seethed with rage – her ship had lost its mizzenmast, the bowspirit was gone entirely as well and the rudder was lost, it would not answer. But she still had her guns, the _Fife_ was a two decker –

But they did not go off. Confused, she lunged her body in the direction of the clockwork ships again – but nothing happened. Just hours ago she had fired every gun on her ship at her own will, as if they were a part of her, connected to her – she whirled around. The wheel was being tossed about by the ropes and wind, unresponsive to her own internal commands.

She was a one woman crew with a terminated clockwork in her cabin and hundreds of corpses on her deck, but she was chained to her ship and she was _powerless._

Enraged and infuriated and saddened all at the same time, Sydney bared her teeth and wrenched her jaws apart, shrieking and crying to the heavens in defeat. She had been overcome.

* * *

Nothing.

Decimus could see nothing, there was nothing around him, no color, no light, there was no sound.

He tried to look down and found that he could not even see himself. If he had an arm he would have touched it to where he thought his body was supposed to be, but neither were there.

And then, distantly, as if it was not _real,_ he heard a voice, a gentle voice, a soothing voice, high and lilting and musical, scraps of a past gone.

" _I've got you now."_

* * *

 **I hope you enjoyed, and do be sure to leave a review!**

 **\- Severina**


	60. Chapter 60

**Chapter 60: The Last Deliverance**

Tired and weary and blood soaked, Hunter leaned heavily into his chair and looked up at the cluster of people gathered around his desk. They had just rowed themselves to his flagship, and now Samantha and Jewel and Andrew and Zachary – they had been the ones responsible for the Marleybonian attack – were waiting for him to speak. He brought a hand to his forehead and pressed his fingertips into his temples, wincing.

The last twenty-four hours had seemed surreal. He had killed his mentor. There were two Sydney Underhills, Dangler had suddenly reappeared as a terrifying apparition and just like that, she was gone again and Hunter hadn't even had time to properly mourn her.

"Are you sure you want to go through with this?" Andrew asked, not intending any disrespect – but to his defense anyways, the idea had seemed rather dangerous. There was no such thing as a _true_ truce with the Armada.

"I'm certain."

"You don't know what she'll _do."_

"And you don't know what _Sydney_ will do, or what she's capable of if we don't put a stop to her now."

No one could disagree with that.

"By the way," said Hunter, leaning forwards in his chair so that he could rest his tired head on his arms while still keeping eye contact, "I commend you all for your ingenuity." He meant, of course, the resurrection of Samantha and Jewel, and the usage of Sydney's previously claimed Armada clockworks. "Every resident of Skull Island here owes their lives to you. We would have been doomed without your aid, and I extend my gratitude."

He hoped that was sufficient. There were a million things more that Hunter wanted to say, but his brain was addled and twisted and the only thing that he could think right now was _there he is, there's the golden eyed boy who warned me about this from the start._

"And…and if I might ask. What did you, ah, _do_ with her?"

Zachary furrowed his brow, confused.

" _Do_ with her? With who?"

"With Sydney, with – with her _body._ " Hunter spat the words – they still felt awkward on his tongue and even now he could feel the chill that had inexplicably taken over the entire cabin. "You never reanimated her, did you?"

"We couldn't."

It made sense. Her spirit wasn't in the yonder realms, it was _here_ and it was terrorizing any living being in its path.

"She's below. Covered properly."

Samantha couldn't even bring herself to refer to Sydney as something that _had_ happened rather than something that _was_ happening, and Hunter could see the struggle on her face. He didn't know her nearly as well as the two women in the cabin did, and it was impossible for him to even _try_ to imagine the grief, the conflict, the loss and betrayal that they must have been feeling right there and then.

Regardless, it was plain to tell that all of them, all five of them here, had been extremely unnerved by seeing _two_ of Sydney, all while knowing that she was dead. They had found her with her face stripped from her body, her corpse filled with maggots and her spirit still chained to the mortal plane. There was no way that she was truly alive – only an illusion that she was.

It was not by any means a natural situation and they were all rather terrified, Hunter felt his skin _crawling_ when he imagined what she looked like when they had first found her.

All at once, Hunter stood up from his desk, pushing his chair back hard enough for it to hit the wall.

"Let's go."

It was now or never, and Hunter knew that if he didn't act immediately then he would stall forever in his perpetual state of shock. He marched, militaristically, out of the cabin and onto the deck, motioning for the others to follow him. They made short work of readying one of the ship's longboats, and some of the able-bodied pirates that were left helped them to lower it into the water.

"Pull for the guild ships," Andrew said. They still had to retrieve Benjamin, he was vital to the plan that they had agreed upon. Hunter still could not _believe_ that he had made a truce, a pact, a compromise with Prima Militus when they had been circling one another, each striking to kill, only hours ago. It was the general consensus that _Underhill must be stopped_ that had temporarily brought the carnage to a halt.

Of course, it would resume the moment this little problem was taken care of but that was another hurdle for a later time. Right now they had wounded to attend to and a very angry spirit to deal with.

"Oars!"

Samantha and Hunter, who were both stroking evenly up until that point, raised the oars vertically as Zachary climbed to the bow and shouted for the man on watch to pass word for Benjamin.

Engineers were nothing if not quick in every way. Benjamin appeared less than a minute after Zachary had first shouted and quickly descended, leaping into the boat and making the whole thing rock rather violently. Jewel grabbed the side to avoid toppling over, she had the tiller and was rather close to the edge.

From the engineering fleet to the shore was not too great of a distance and with Samantha at the oars (she eventually just took the other from Hunter, the man was exhausted and she, although she was worn out as well, still had plenty of strength to spare), it seemed as if they had reached the beach in no time.

"Don't bother," Samantha said, motioning for the rest of them to stay in the boat as she gripped the edge and hauled it ashore so that it was beached, unable to drift away into the skies again before helping the others out. It was the dead of night, and none of them could see any more than a few feet in front of them at any time. This was their agreed meeting spot, Hunter noted, so where was she?

That question was answered quickly. Before long they could all hear the sounds of rhythmical, mechanical marching, the noises slightly muffled by the sand as Prima approached, the long train of her grandiose, brocaded robes trailing behind her as she glided forwards. She had her own little posse of guards, Hunter saw – four marines, two on either side, and just as well. In the background he saw more soldiers emerging, some of them transporting supplies onto ships, others working to make repairs to both themselves and their weapons. Still more were now lining the shore, guarding against any interference that might interrupt the declared parley.

Prima was now close enough for Hunter to make out the cracks in her mask from where he had slammed his fist into her face a few years ago, when she had still been held as a prisoner in his manor. They stood across from each other and, stiffly, they shook hands.

"You and your people," Prima said, her voice cool and cutting, "you are prepared to go through with this?"

"We are."

"There will be no hesitation?"

Hunter swallowed.

"It is," he said, "the _best_ course of action." Otherwise every pirate and clockwork remaining would be destroyed in a matter of two or three days.

"So be it."

Prima turned a little, raising one hand and twisting it sharply in a silent signal, and Hunter looked over his shoulder at the three men. Benjamin had already put everything in order.

"You're ready?"

"Aye, sir," came the affirmative reply, and that at least brought him a little reassurance. Benjamin went off, then, vanishing into the shadows, although Hunter could still hear his voice as he gave directions and orders. Slowly, a massive structure began to come into view.

Simultaneously, a series of Armada skiffs now emerged from around the rocks, each of them tethered with strong, sturdy tow lines to the wreckage that remained of the _Grand Fife._ She was a huge ship, that was for certain, and she required a monumental amount of force to move.

On the quarterdeck of the ship, still trying to wrestle with the unanswering wheel, was Sydney Underhill, shrieking and wailing like a banshee. Hunter brought his spyglass to his eye and found himself face to face with a horrific sight of her rapidly and constantly morphing face, her eyes black and bleeding one moment and then white and stretched open the next, rows upon rows of teeth rotating within her stretched mouth, the skin split up to her ears.

He tried to listen to her, to make out anything that she was saying, but to him, it sounded like a cluster of mad cries. A rabid animal.

"They've brought the device, sir," said Jewel, reaching forward to gently tap him on the shoulder to pull Hunter out of his stupor. Benjamin was now behind him again, and just fifty feet away was an _enormous_ catapult, anchored in the sand and pulled taut, ready to fire. Loaded was what looked like a gargantuan ball of twine. Just then, there was a loud scuffle, a commotion coming from the beach and every head, Armada and pirate alike, turned in that direction.

Here came two marine guards, frog-marching a musketeer in between them. A second boat was now next to Hunter's, turned on its side and half-filled with sand, obviously sloppily landed and in a great hurry, too. Benjamin stepped forwards – and then his eyes shot wide.

"It's Quintus!"

"We tried to stop him, Commander," said one of the guards, obviously to Prima, but she remained momentarily unfazed.

"L-Let me – "

"Silence!"

"I - !"

"Let him speak!" Prima said, sharply, holding up a hand to silence all parties involved. Quintus, now the center of focus, was shaking and vibrating violently where he stood, like a broken-down machine.

"I-I-I cannot-t-t," He said, and there was a horrid series of creaking noises that came, faintly from within his frame. "Cannot r-r-emain apart. M-M-My Comma-a-ander." He said, in halting, stammering fragments that sounded more like morse code than anything else.

It was worse than it ever had been before. During the battle, Benjamin had ordered for him to be locked up within the main cabin, but it had not done any good – here he was, knowing that his Commander's corpse was on the ship and yet Quintus and everyone _else_ involved in that battle had been able to hear Sydney's horrid, ghostly shrieks and wails.

Two Commanders, and it had overwhelmed his processor entirely. Even now he did not know which one existed, which one was alive, which one was real – and which one he was to _obey._

"L-Let me _go_ to h-her!" Quintus finally said, at last, with more violence and force than Hunter had ever imagined a clockwork to be capable of expressing through speech, and he trembled so violently that he almost collapsed over in the sand had the marines not grabbed his arms and held him upright. He gestured violently towards the _Fife,_ now docked.

Pirates, each one of them accompanied by a witchdoctor, trekked back and forth, delicately carrying the corpses off of the ship and laying them on the sand, closing their eyes, covering them with sheets and hammocks and old sails. The clockwork frames, deactivated, were lined up in a neat little row and Hunter knew that if it wasn't for Prima's presence they would have been tossed into the skies.

For a few moments, all who were present stared, entranced, and then Quintus lurched forwards, shaking off the grips of the marines with a surprising burst of strength as he hobbled towards the _Fife,_ feet twisted, legs stiff, knees hardly bending. From her position standing directly behind Hunter, Samantha could see it all, and she almost felt a twinge of pity for him. Almost.

In the end, he was just another heartless machine, she reminded herself – even if it _was_ a little hard to believe, after all they had seen from him.

Stumbling past pirates bearing corpses and weathering numerous shocked and furious glares, Quintus practically spilled onto the deck of the _Fife –_ where he was at last greeted by his Commander, grey eyed and slack-jawed.

"Quintus," she whispered, her voice like a feather being whipped about in the wind, "Quintus, _no!"_

She shook her head, and as she spoke her lips cracked a little, more and more with each word.

"I am a _failure,_ " she said, "a failure. I am not _worthy_ of you, Quintus, I…I was never worthy of you."

"Reporting for duty, Commander," said Quintus, standing straight and tall even as he shook and rattled, his voice violently fluctuating in pitch. Sydney looked from the shore to the deck and back again, her eyes growing wider yet.

"You have to _leave!_ You have to leave _now!"_

There was another great lurch and Sydney tumbled to the deck – it was the skiffs, they were tugging at the crippled _Fife_ again, and Quintus was tugging at her upper arm, helping her back to her feet, dusting off her tattered and bloodstained jacket as she, without any warning, burst into hysterical sobs.

"You shouldn't _ha-a-ave_ to," Sydney wailed, and she ran to the railing – only to see Zachary touch one hand to the ball of twine nestled in the catapult, setting it alight with ghostly green flames that would burn every bit of magic, every charm, every curse it touched, and she all but felt herself dissolve in fear.

" _NO!"_ She shrieked, nearly launching herself over the railing (although she couldn't – she was still bound to her ship even if Vadima did not have direct control over her anymore) and into the skies below. " _YOU CAN'T DO THIS! YOU CAN'T DO THIS!"_

On shore, Samantha clenched her jaw, taking Jewel's hand in her own and squeezing tightly.

" _DON'T LET HIM DIE!"_ Sydney wailed, sobbing wretchedly against her arms before raising her head up and _screeching._ "Quintus, Quintus, no, jump, you're not _bound_ here like I am! Look, look - ! Driftwood! Jump, Quintus, grab it, _grab it! Come on! COME ON, QUINTUS!"_ She grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him, hard, nails digging into his jacket, but he did not move.

Instead, he reached out and took her hand, bowing his head in the way that resembled royalty, or so he thought. The Monquistans had this custom, and he raised her hand up a little.

"I am at your service, Commander."

"Quintus, jump, _please jump!"_

"I will stay by your side – "

" _JUMP!"_

" – until the very end."

Samantha could not hear all of this from the shore, but she could hear Sydney's pleas, she heard the desperation in her voice echoing out in all directions, and Prima's shoulders dropped a little.

"He was a rogue," she said, "loyal to his Commander until the end, of course. But a rogue nevertheless."

Benjamin, oddly enough, found himself hesitating, staying his hand, even though Zachary and the engineers were a hair's breadth away from executing their plan.

"He cannot be saved," said Prima, and perhaps if one tried hard enough to imagine, it almost sounded like an apology, or offered condolences. Samantha turned away and Jewel clutched at her arm, the tears welling up in her eyes, and Hunter knew that if this lasted much longer then this would all fall apart, they would fail.

"Do it," he hissed, and an axe was swung, the rope was cut, the ball of twine, set alight with cursed flames, sailed into the air in a perfect arc before smashing against the hull of the _Fife,_ the flames immediately catching to and swarming over the structure of the ship.

" _NO! NO! NO!"_ Sydney wailed, slamming her body against the railing, and the flames caught to her too, _"DON'T DO THIS, DON'T DO THI – "_

And then her sentence was cut off altogether, her voice carrying out in one raging shriek as she fell to her knees, hugging Quintus' legs, those terrible noises of pain and grief carrying and soaring across the skies. Any pirates who were still aboard the ships stopped then and their blood ran cold – those who did not know of what was occurring vaguely concluded that the Reckoning had finally come.

"Calm, Commander," Quintus whispered, placing his hand on her head as she writhed and howled and thrashed, and he knelt by her, holding her as she had once done him. "I am here, here until – "

The _Fife_ erupted in an explosion of monumental magnitude, a wave of pure shock and blinding green light bowling over everyone on the beach, clockwork and mortal alike. Hunter couldn't breathe, he couldn't see, nothing –

After what seemed like an eternity, he weakly sat up, spitting out sand and watching it dribble pathetically from his lips as the last few bits of wood and flotsam burned away into nothingness.

Prima stumbled back, held up by two marines, and she was lost for words and descriptions, all analytics having failed her. Samantha and Jewel clung tightly to each other until they were almost smothered, sobbing and pouring out what remained of their poor, wrung-out hearts.

And as Sydney Underhill's last dying cries echoed and bounced off of the rocks of the island, the cove, the ships, Benjamin Spinnaker tried very hard not to think of tightly pressed curls and olive-green dresses, of happier, simpler times.

* * *

 **To any of you who stuck with me throughout this huge adventure, thank you. Thank you for witnessing and enduring my growth as a writer, and as a person as well.**

 **I hope you enjoyed, and be sure to leave a review!**

 **\- Severina**


End file.
